No Fate: The Collected Data Files
by Elgin
Summary: A collection of key points from the 'No Fate' series.
1. Chapter 1

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**No Fate: The Collected Data Files**

**Chapter One – Fallout**

**Thursday 31st October 1996**

**Ethan's Costume Shoppe, Sunnydale, CA**

The bell rang as the shop's door was pushed open, and Rupert Giles immediately recoiled from the overwhelming acidic tang in the air.

"_Ewww_… what's that smell, Giles?" Buffy piped up from behind him, still clad in her noblewoman's period costume.

"Yeah, it stinks like the chem lab did last week when Harmony messed up her experiment," Willow chipped in from behind the Slayer.

"That would be chaos magic," said Giles, fumbling in his pocket for a handkerchief and clasping it over his mouth and nose as he cautiously made his way inside. "E-Ethan's sp-spell must have used a great deal of it… b-but to produce a-a scent of this, ah, magnitude… astonishingly vast quantities of magic that must have been used… I-I've never heard of a case like this before—"

"R-Rip… per…?"

"Ethan?" Giles followed the weak whisper, picking his way past racks and a till to the shop's poky little back room, then recoiled in horror.

The man inside was ancient and wizened, his flesh pale and parchment-thin. Each shuddering breath he drew rasped noisily, as if it might be his last. He lay in a foetal position on the floor, surrounded by magical paraphernalia. With agonising slothfulness, he struggled to raise his head, and his gaze met Giles's.

"H-hello… Ripper…" he wheezed.

The Watcher's jaw dropped. "Ethan," he whispered. "Good god, man, what have you _done?"_

Ethan's lips parted in a crazy grin, and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. "I… made a little mistake…" he said.

"Giles? Who's there – hang on, who's the old guy?" Buffy asked, following along behind him. "Uh – do we need an ambulance here or something?"

Ethan forced his cracked lips into a wry grin. "P-perhaps… a hearse might be more… _appropriate_, Slayer," he wheezed.

"Buffy, please take Willow and wait outside," Giles said, his voice icy calm and authoritative.

"But Giles—!"

"Buffy… please, just go," Giles quietly repeated himself.

"It's… quite alright, Slayer…" Ethan smirked up at them. "I've got… no more magic left… nor much time… Ripper will be… perfectly safe… alone with me."

"Please, Buffy, Willow, just go and… make sure nothing disturbs us."

Buffy stared up at her Watcher for a long moment, then looked away and nodded. "C'mon, Will," she said quietly.

"How do I reverse the spell, Ethan?" Giles asked as the bell rang, signalling that both girls had left the shop. "Dammit, Ethan, a boy's life is at stake here! A close friend of my Slayer, no less! How do I undo the spell?"

Slowly, Ethan shook his head, breath rasping noisily. "Too late, Ripper… Janus… the statue of Janus…"

Looking around, Giles's gaze fell upon a scattering of shards. "Were they the statue, Ethan?" he asked, turning back to the chaos mage. "The shards – were they the statue?"

"Yes… breaking… the statue… would have broken the spell… i-if it had worked… as I pl-planned…" Ethan mumbled. "B-but… the spell went wrong… used too much magic… drained the statue… _broke_ it… then the spell drained me… my magic, my life… drained me…"

Cold dread stabbed deeply into Giles's gut. "What happened here, Ethan?" he asked.

"The spell… it went out of control… all the magic went… to just one costume," Ethan panted. "Just one…"

"What did it _do_, Ethan? What did the spell do to Xander?"

"It w-was supposed to be… just a little chaos… a h-harmless… little joke… Turn people… into their costumes… for just one night… No harm done… Wouldn't have hurt anyone, Ripper, I _swear…_ B-But… it went wrong… did so much more…"

"You changed Xander into his costume?"

Ethan shook his head. "Th-that was… the plan… but it all went so _wrong_, Ripper… One costume was changed… changed _completely_… and… h-he's gone now."

Giles glowered down at the mage. "Are you saying Xander's dead?" he growled, allowing his old Ripper-ish instincts to surface once more. "Because if you are, then—"

"No, no, no, not… not _dead_, Ripper… at least, I don't _think_ he is… I said he's _gone_… Th-the spell… s-sent him somewhere… and some_when_… else. U-used up so m-much magic… used up _me_…"

"But _why?_ Why would that happen?"

"Heh… the nature of the beast, dear Ripper…" Ethan chuckled, a sickly and liquid sound. "Chaos… it's so _very_ unpredictable…"

"Where is Xander now, Ethan?"

"Don't… don't know… far away… in space and _time_, Ripper… space and time… A-and he's not 'Xander'… not anymore…"

"He… became his costume?" Giles said hesitantly.

Ethan nodded. "The boy with the Slayer… Bought a… jacket… and a shotgun – a prop… a prop from a film…"

"Which film, Ethan?"

The chaos mage shook his head. "Ca-ca-can't 'member… far too much magic… too much power… more than the spell sh-should have needed…"

"What might that have done to him, Ethan? How would the magic affect the transformation?"

"Do-don't know… Ripper… it c-could be… permanent… or the spell could have… w-worn off already… o-or he might have been… _consumed_ b-by his costume… I _really_ d-don't know…" Ethan closed his eyes. "I-I feel so… _tired_, R-Ripper… so very tired…"

Giles crouched beside the wizened man. "Is there anything that I can… do for you?" the Watcher asked.

Ethan slowly opened his eyes and shook his head. "N-nothing, Ripper… e-except… maybe…"

Giles leaned closer to his one-time friend. "Yes?"

Ethan gave a wicked grin. "Spit in Travers's eye sometime, Ripper… that bastard's got it coming."

Giles chuckled. "This is true."

Ethan erupted into a wheezy little laugh that quickly turned into a coughing fit. "R-R-R-Ripper…" he fought to get out, suddenly looking deathly serious, "I… did something else, Ripper… D-didn't mean to… I sensed it through the magic… before it sent him away…"

"What did you do, Ethan?" Giles asked gently.

"A… a doorway," Ethan gasped, his eyes slipping shut. "The spell… it opened a doorway…"

Giles's blood ran cold. "What sort of doorway, Ethan?" he demanded.

"I-It's sm-small… for now…" Ethan mumbled, so quietly that Giles had to lean forward and place his ear directly over the dying mage's lips to hear his final whisper: "B-but… it will grow, Ripper… It will _grow…"_

Giles sat back, slumping against the wall, and stared at his former friend. First seconds, then minutes, ticked by in silence, as the Watcher stared at the lifeless and strangely peaceful features of the dead mage.

The corner of his eye stung; Giles ignored it. A solitary tear began to lazily course its way down his cheek. His vision blurred; reflexively, Giles removed his spectacles and began to polish them with his handkerchief. He consciously knew his misty eyesight had nothing to do with the cleanliness of his spectacles, but he drew a small measure of comfort from the familiar action.

Eventually, Giles pocketed his handkerchief and donned his spectacles once more, then cleared his throat. Slowly, sadly, he reached over, and with a tenderness that surprised him, he closed Ethan's dead staring eyes.

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**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything related to 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer', the Terminator franchise, the Stargate franchise or NCIS.


	2. Chapter 2

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"_The Terminator will never stop. He will never leave me. He will always be there. And he will never hurt me, never shout at me or get drunk and hit me, or say he can't spend time with me because he's too busy. And he will die to protect me._

"_Of all the would-be friends who've come and gone over the years, this thing, this machine, is the first one who's really measured up. In an insane world, this is the sanest choice."_

—Extract from _The Slayer Diaries of Faith Lehane Volume 1_, 29th May 1997

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**No Fate: The Collected Data Files**

**Chapter Two – In Uncharted Territory**

**Monday 19th May 1997**

**NCIS Headquarters, Navy Yard, Washington D.C.**

"DiNozzo! Grab your gear, we're goin' to Boston!"

Tony DiNozzo looked puzzled, shrugged to himself, and grabbed the backpack beside his desk. "On your six, Boss!" he called out, following the silver-haired elder man to the lift. "What's in Boston?"

The doors slid smoothly open with a cheerful _ding!_ "Marine got stabbed in a bar fight," Gibbs said curtly.

"Ouch," Tony winced as they boarded the lift. "The local LEOs got any suspects?"

"Yeah: witnesses say a young naked guy did it."

Tony did a quick double-take in surprise as the doors began to rumble shut. "Now that's just _weird…"_

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Boston, MA**

Uniformed police officers stood guard at the door to the Lehane apartment; lengths of black and yellow tape declared the area to be a crime scene. Inside, a team of CSIs photographed, took samples, measured and catalogued the flat's contents.

Two men approached the crime scene, flashing IDs and badges as one of the uniformed officers held her hand up in challenge. "Special Agent Jones, FBI," one of them said curtly by way of introduction.

"Special Agent Smith, same agency," the other added. Before the officer could protest, they shouldered her aside and ducked under the tape across the doorway.

One of the CSIs strolled over, a sour look on his face. "FBI, huh?" he asked, having overheard the exchange.

"Correct," said Jones.

"Funny; I thought alla you guys had the surname 'Johnson'," quipped the detective.

Jones and Smith stared blankly at him.

The detective's gaze darted from one to the other. "Not big movie fans, are ya? Detective Cole, Boston PD. You guys mind tellin' me how this is the FBI's business?"

Smith reached into his jacket pocket and produced a photograph. "Do you have reason to believe this man was involved in Ms Lehane's death?" he asked, handing it over.

Cole glanced at the photo; a black-and-white still shot from the Wolfram & Hart building's CCTV cameras, it was a tight close-up that showed only the T-890's face. "Sure looks like the kid one a' the neighbours described," he conceded. "Guy bust through the door, then came out a couple a' minutes later. He didn't kill Lehane, though; she OD'd on crack, been dead at least a week. We're still waitin' for the M.E. to get us a precise time of death. We think this guy was in a bar fight last night, too."

Jones and Smith exchanged glances, then turned back to Cole. "Where did this fight take place?" asked Jones.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**The Council of Watchers' Headquarters, London**

There were days that Quentin Travers bitterly regretted having accepted the post of Head of the Council. Unfortunately, almost every single day since he'd taken up the position qualified as such a day; for every day was filled with the bane of his life:

_Paperwork_.

There was a knock at his office door. Setting down a report about the latest sighting of _The Flying Dutchman_ on the Great Lakes, Travers looked up to see his secretary peer in. "Ah, Mrs King," he greeted her. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm sorry to bother you, Mr Travers, but Doctor Robson's on the 'phone – he says you're urgently needed in the De Rothesay Room."

Travers frowned, immediately worried. "Thank you, Mrs King – let him know I'm on my way, please."

**[—]**

As Travers hurried as quickly as dignity would permit, he noticed that the rambling old building – one of a handful to have survived the Great Fire of London when it had swept through the area in the seventeenth century – was growing increasingly busier than usual. There was a certain _frisson_ in the air; junior Watchers cast nervous glances at Travers as he passed them by; a Hunter Force team hurried past him, heading in the opposite direction and heavily armed with stakes, crossbows and MP5A3 submachine guns.

Travers felt his gut lock up in a painful knot as he pushed open the doors to the De Rothesay Room to find it a veritable hive of activity. Watchers, staffers, and even a couple of Hunter Force team leaders bustled about. The long and fine oak conference table was buried under a sea of maps and documents, and several telephones had been brought in; half a dozen staffers were manning them now, taking and placing calls in a scene of organised chaos.

"Mr Travers," Robson greeted him.

Travers gave him a polite nod of acknowledgement. "Doctor. What's the situation?"

"We have—" Robson paused as a dazzling flash of white light filled the room; as the light died away, a woman in her forties, clad in jeans and a green silk blouse – one of the witches on the Council's payroll – stood in a hitherto empty patch of the room.

"As I was saying," Robson continued, as the newly-arrived witch hurried over to confer in hushed tones with one of the Hunter Force team leaders and Professor Richard Wyndham-Pryce, "we have confirmation that a new Slayer has been activated."

Travers set his jaw firmly. "Which one of the Potentials is it?"

Robson shook his head. "None of them."

"She's _another_ stray?" Travers asked, incredulous.

"I'm afraid so."

Travers sighed. "Where is she?"

"She _was_ in Boston – the American one, that is. However, apparently she might be on the move – if so, we don't know where she's headed."

"What do you mean, 'apparently' and 'might be'?" Travers asked, puzzled.

Robson turned away. "Mr Haskell?" he asked.

A Watcher – a gaunt elderly man who'd already seen his centennial year and leaned heavily on a cane topped with a mace-head wrought in silver – turned away from his earnest conversation with two colleagues. "What is it, boy?"

"Could you tell Mr Travers what you told me a few minutes ago, please?"

Haskell squinted down at Travers; the elder Watcher was still easily six feet five inches tall, and towered over everyone in the room save for the witch who'd just teleported in. "Travers, eh? Not _Hugh_ Travers?"

"He was my uncle, Mr Haskell," Travers said respectfully. "My father's youngest brother."

"Hmm," Haskell grunted. "Cocky little know-it-all, he was, back in his Academy days – always gossiping in class no matter how many times I took a cane to his backside. Caught him with some dirty magazines once, too. So, why should I waste my time with young Travers here, eh, Robson?"

"Mr Travers _is_ the Head of the Council, Mr Haskell," said Robson, his tone a tad reproachful.

"Is he? Well, I hope you last longer than your immediate predecessors did, young man," said Haskell, punctuating his comment by patting Travers on the shoulder. "Whitmore came to a bit of a sticky end, didn't he? The funeral had to be a closed casket job. Then young Ford had to be incinerated – you just can't afford to have bloody zombies running around all over the place. And after that business with nest of Procturan Black Rippers, no one could even _find_ anything of that Selby boy to bury, if memory serves."

"Mr Haskell, the, ah, _difficulties_ with tracking the new Slayer?" Robson gently prompted.

"Ahhh, yes… very puzzling, that," Haskell mused. "Very puzzling. Now then, young Travers, take a look at this." So saying, he pulled a map of the North American continent out of the clutter on the conference table. Muttering a few words under his breath, Haskell passed his hand over California twice, and a large circle gold light appeared on the map; Travers felt a brief familiar stab of pins-and-needles running up and down his spine in such close proximity to the use of magic.

"As you can see here, there's a Slayer in California," Haskell began. "The elevated background levels of dark magic from the Hellmouth snarl things up a bit, though, which is why the light's so big – she's _somewhere_ in there—" he jabbed a gnarled finger at the gold circle, "—but that's as good as we'll ever get at this range. If you want her _precise_ location, we'd need to be, oh, no more than five miles or so away from her at the very most."

"So that Slayer might not even be on the Sunnydale Hellmouth?" Travers asked, turning a blind eye to the ancient mage's manner. "That circle covers a radius of at least two hundred miles, maybe three – there's several major cities in that area."

"Exactly," Haskell nodded in grudging approval. "If she were outside the Hellmouth's range – somewhere safe like, say, Canada – we could pinpoint her location _exactly_ no matter where we cast this spell relative to her position. If she were in Devon or another white magic hotspot, we'd get a moving image and sound, too, showing what she was doing, saying and whatnot."

"Do you know which Slayer is in California?"

Haskell shook his head. "No idea – again, that's the Hellmouth's influence for you. Still, we know there's _a_ Slayer either on or fairly close to it, and that's as good as you're ever going to get when active Hellmouths enter the equation.

"However, when I try to find our _new_ Slayer – whose location should be fairly easy to pinpoint, given that she's nowhere near even a _dormant_ Hellmouth – _this_ happens." Haskell repeated the spell, passing his hand over Massachusetts this time, only for the whole state and a good deal of the surrounding area to light up, a large gold indeterminate shape overlaid with a constantly swirling kaleidoscopic mix of colours.

"What on _earth…?"_ Travers breathed, frowning in bemusement.

"Chaos magic," said Haskell. "Something's absolutely soaked in the stuff – and whatever it is, this new Slayer's either near it or carrying it."

"You can't narrow down her location any further?" Travers asked.

Haskell snorted. "Not with all that muck fouling things up, no. The good news is it seems to be slowly dissipating – when I first tried this spell to trace her, half the continent was lit up like that. Give it enough time, and we'll find out exactly where she is."

Travers raised a sceptical eyebrow. "I thought you said she was in Boston?"

"I did," Haskell agreed.

"Then how do you know that?"

Haskell casually shrugged. "I said she _was_ in Boston – specifically, she was there yesterday, exactly twenty-four hours ago," he said. "See for yourself." With that, he closed his eyes and began muttering once more, utterly inhuman and alien syllables flowing past his lips as he waved his hand over the map. Travers watched, intrigued, as the earlier magical illusion was replaced by a twinkling gold star, so tiny it was almost invisible.

"See?" Haskell said triumphantly. "I had to do some tinkering with the spell, but I promise you that's where she was yesterday, before she was Called and before all that chaos magic turned up."

"Do you know where this chaos magic came from?" asked Travers.

"Haven't the foggiest," said Haskell. "Damn stuff came literally out of nowhere. It must have taken one hell of a lot of power to generate that much all in one place, that's for sure."

Travers frowned, staring intently at the map. "Chaos… Mr Haskell, what sort of beings could generate that much chaos magic?" he asked, not looking up.

Haskell rubbed the head of his cane as he mused this over. "Other than gods and anything else with similar power, I don't think there _is_ anything that could do the job," he said. "Even if every chaos mage in the world clubbed together and put everything they had into it, they'd fall short of generating this lot by miles."

Travers' eyes narrowed, as he isolated a particular memory and asked "Could, say, the Roman god Janus have generated it?"

"I suppose he could," Haskell conceded. "He's still got all his marbles – unlike most of the old deities, he can still string together a sentence more coherent than 'whibble, whibble' – and has quite a hefty dollop of juice at his disposal, even if his powers aren't what they were in his glory days."

"Why Janus, sir?" asked Robson.

"One of Doctor Giles' reports from last autumn mentioned that a chaos mage – that troublemaker Rayne, who worshipped Janus – arrived in Sunnydale and attempted to cast a spell… a spell that went out of control," Travers explained. "The spell killed Rayne, and one of his Slayer's friends was transformed in some fashion then vanished altogether, apparently by magical means. Doctor Giles wrote in his report that Rayne had told him the spell sent the young man somewhere else… and some_when_ else."

"Time travel?" Robson asked.

"Hmm," Haskell grunted. "An out-of-control chaos spell cast on top of a Hellmouth? Yessss… that ought to do the job alright. That could very well be what's fogging things up for us."

Travers nodded. "How soon before you can determine the new Slayer's precise location, Mr Haskell?" he asked.

"Impossible to say," Haskell said with a weary sigh. "It's chaos magic, so it could take the next five minutes or the next five _years_ to clear up."

Travers nodded gloomily as Haskell took his leave, heading over to the witch who'd teleported in. "Has there been any word from Doctor Giles, Robson?" Travers asked, turning away from the map.

Robson shook his head. "No, sir. We've tried to contact him, but no luck so far."

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**5 Miles Outside Boston, MA**

"…the weirdest thing was his eyes." Lloyd paused, trembling a little as he took a slurp of his coffee.

Seated across one of the Corral Open's tables from Lloyd as police officers continued to document and assess the crime scene, Jones and Smith exchanged a quick glance, then looked back at him. "Please elaborate," Smith asked.

"Look, I've seen folks drunk, or on steroids, or smack or whatever before," said Lloyd, "but this kid… he was _nothin'_ like that. He was one hunnerd percent _calm_, y'know? It was like he knew I couldn't do _shit_ to him. Like, even if I'd pulled that trigger an' planted a shell right in the middle of his face…" He broke off, giving an involuntary shiver. "Like it wouldn'a even slowed him down."

Jones and Smith nodded thoughtfully, their movements simultaneous.

Lloyd snorted, looking down at his coffee cup. "'Course, you guys figure I'm nuts, right?"

"Not at all," Jones said smoothly. "Your testimony…"

"…has been most enlightening," Smith finished.

**[—]**

A few minutes later, the two operatives stood on the Corral Open's front step, the door quietly thumping shut and the bell ringing behind them.

Ignoring the police officers busily working the now-floodlit crime scene, Jones and Smith slowly crossed the car park, methodically scanning their surroundings.

**[—]**

The crater burned into the tarmac was perfectly rounded; so too was the rear corner of the parked trailer-truck. It looked as if a sphere had abruptly materialised out of thin air in complete disregard for its surroundings and simply disintegrated everything that got in its way.

"Over here," Jones called out. He was crouched by the edge of the crater in the tarmac and peering closely at it, a torch in his hand, playing the beam over the crater as the moon shone down from the night sky overhead.

A second later, Smith rounded the trailer-truck and joined his colleague. "An arrival point," he suggested, examining the damaged vehicle.

Jones nodded. "Most likely."

"Lehane's companion…" Smith began.

"…could be a teleporter," Jones finished.

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**Boston General Hospital, Boston, MA**

"And you say he then attacked you and your buddies?" Tony asked, notebook and pen in hand.

Lance Corporal Lee Daniels, USMC, nodded quickly, his eyes wide and darting every which way. "Y-yeah, yessir," he stammered, shifting uncomfortably in his hospital bed. "I-I mean, okay, Grease Pig had a li'l fun with the guy first an' all…"

"What's that mean, 'a little fun'?" Gibbs asked, standing on the other side of the bed.

The twenty-year-old Marine shrugged. "Uh… well… _y'know,_ sir…"

Gibbs stared at the Marine, his gaze as unflinching and warm as a basilisk's. "No," said Gibbs. "I don't. What _did_ Mr Percival do?"

Daniels gulped. "W-well… th-the guy, h-he c-comes up to G-Grease Pig, right? An' then he goes 'I need your clothes, your boots, and your motorcycle' – like that. An' Grease Pig… well, he thought it was funny as all hell – we all did! – an' then he tells the guy he forgot to say 'please' or somethin', an'… an' he stubs his cigar out… on the guy's chest."

"What happened then?" Tony asked.

Daniels shook his head. "Everything went crazy, sir – we were in the fuckin' Twilight Zone an' _then_ some, y'know? The guy, right, he don't even flinch, man – he just grabs Grease Pig's hand – the one with the cigar in it – and _squeezes_."

"Squeezes?" Tony looked puzzled.

"Yeah," Daniels nodded. "An', like, Grease Pig ends up on his knees an' he's _screamin'_, sir, an' the guy's still squeezin' his hand an' there's these, like, crunching noises from Pig's hand – ain't _no one_ that strong, man! No one!"

Gibbs nodded thoughtfully. "This guy was on steroids?"

Daniels shook his head emphatically. "Uh-uh, no way, sir. This guy, he was in, like, real good shape an' all, but he didn't look like a juicehead, y'know? His muscles looked, like, all natural an' shit."

"So what happened next?" Tony asked.

"Hippie an' Pig wuz shootin' pool when the guy came in, right? So Hippie grabs his pool cue by the narrow end and lets the guy have it, smashes the cue over the guy's head, broke it in half. But the guy, he don't even _flinch_, sir – he just grabbed Hippie and threw him outta the window – Hippie went through it like it wuz, I dunno, paper or somethin', an' slams into the sidewalk outside, knocks him out. Docs say Hippie _still_ ain't woke up, neither.

"Then the guy throws Pig into the kitchen – Pig weighs more'n two hundred twenty pounds, but this guy threw him with one hand like he weighed nothin'!"

"So how come you ended up with a knife in your shoulder, Marine?" Gibbs asked quietly.

Daniels fidgeted under Gibbs' stern gaze. "I… the knife was mine, sir," the young marine admitted. "I swung at him, an' then things got _really_ fuckin' weird…"

**[—]**

"What d'you make of that, DiNozzo?" Gibbs asked, as they left Daniels' hospital room.

Tony shook his head. "If what Daniels said was true, then we're dealing with a very freaky situation, Boss."

Gibbs shot his probie a sidelong glance. "Yeah? What do you mean?" he demanded.

"Oh, c'mon, Boss! 'I need your clothes, your boots, and your motorcycle'? That's a direct quote from _Terminator 2: Judgement Day_ – very weird. Hell, the fight sounds a lot like a scene from that movie, too. Only difference is there were _four_ bikers in the movie, and the last one sat out the fight 'cause he got scared from seein' his buddies taken down."

Gibbs frowned. "That line – is it just _similar_ to the one in the movie, or the same?"

"The same, Boss. _Exactly_ the same."

"Huh… a copycat, maybe?"

Tony shook his head. "If Daniels was right about his description of the suspect—"

"That's a pretty big 'if' there, DiNozzo, for a kid Marine who was dumb enough to hang out with a biker gang."

"—true, Boss. But _if_ he was right, this guy couldn't have been strong enough to throw Daniels' old high school buddy and the gang leader around like that. And catching Daniels' knife in his hand like that, getting cut up? And as for Percival's hand…" He shrugged. "Hell, I dunno what this all adds up to, Boss, but it's pretty weird."

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**10 Miles North Of Boston, MA**

The car was sleek, black and chic, and it hurtled down the motorway fast enough to make State Trooper Arnold Strong's unmarked car rock violently on its suspension. Arnold cursed under his breath, and looked at the readout on his radar gun – then cursed again.

The plastic liquid crystal display screen was warped and twisted and blackened, as if someone had taken a blowtorch to it.

**[—]**

The black car's occupants stared straight ahead, their eyes hidden by aviator sunglasses despite the darkness of the night. Neither so much as glanced at the other as they calmly continued their unhurried conversation: every word was delivered in a studiously flat monotone, while their faces were devoid of emotion.

"Lehane is now a Slayer," said Jones, who was driving.

"We know there are two Slayers now," said Smith.

"We will need to establish which of them died to…" Jones began.

"…determine the circumstances of Lehane's activation," Smith finished the thought.

"The Summers Slayer is based…"

"…at the Sunnydale Hellmouth."

"An _active_ Hellmouth: a place of…" Jones mused.

"…frequent and unusual occurrences," Smith agreed.

"The Young Slayer…"

"…has no fixed area of operations."

"Hypothesis: Lehane's companion. Not a human. Not a demon. Not a magical construct," said Jones.

"As proven by the readings from the protective wards," Smith agreed.

"Artificial?" suggested Jones.

Both men sat in silence for a few minutes as they considered this idea. "It cannot be ruled out," Smith finally said. "The wards reported lower-than-average magical levels surrounding him. And that the only magic they could detect was… chaos magic."

Silence fell again for another few minutes. "That is… decidedly unusual," said Jones.

"Indeed."

"Chaos mages are rare."

"That will make search easier."

"The fee was missing from Lehane's apartment," Jones said.

"As was the card Ms Mason gave to Lehane's mother," Smith agreed.

"Lehane's companion could have them," Jones suggested.

Smith nodded. "A plausible explanation."

"There is only one Watcher on the continent at present," said Jones.

"If Lehane's companion knows anything about the Slayer…" Smith began.

"…he will know of the Watchers," Jones finished.

"And in time, Lehane will need to meet the Watcher."

"We should wait at the…"

"…Sunnydale Hellmouth, then…"

"…to intercept Lehane," Jones completed their decision.

Smith gave a curt nod in agreement.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**80 Miles West Of Boston, MA**

A lonely ghost on the road, the Electro-Glide blasted out of the darkness on a long stretch of moonlit motorway. Headlight off, the enormous hog punched a hole in the wind.

"Can you see anything?" Faith shouted over the noise of the engine and the icy slipstream, her hair blowing every which way.

A faint red light glowed from beneath the Terminator's wraparound sunglasses as he easily rode through the void, his night vision transforming the road ahead into a monochrome image that was lit bright as day. "I see everything," he said.

Faith smirked, despite the fact that she was shivering from the cold. "Cool."

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**5 Miles Outside Boston, MA**

"Can't this wait 'til tomorrow, Boss?" Tony griped as he climbed out of the rental car. "It's _way_ past two o'clock in the _morning_, y'know. We could find a motel, get some sleep, then come back nice an' refreshed…"

"We ain't takin' a break, Tony," Gibbs quietly admonished him. "Soon as we're done here, we're headin' back ta DC to see what Abby can come up with for us."

"Aw, _man…"_

"Can I help you, gentlemen?" called out one of the uniformed police officers guarding the crime scene.

"Yeah – I'm Special Agent Gibbs, this is Agent DiNozzo," Gibbs said as they produced their IDs. "NCIS."

The officer frowned, puzzled. "What's that?"

Gibbs suppressed a sigh at that. "Naval Criminal Investigative Service," he explained. "A Marine was here on leave when a fight broke out – we just came from his hospital room."

A plainclothes detective wandered over, having heard that last part. "NCIS?" she groaned. "Crap, how many _more_ federal agencies are we gonna have trampling over this damn crime scene?"

Tony looked puzzled. "Whadda ya mean?"

The detective jerked her thumb vaguely over her shoulder. "We already had a coupl'a FBI guys here. They poked around some, interviewed our witnesses again, then took off a couple of hours back."

Gibbs' expression was carefully poker-faced. "Was one of these an Agent Fornell?" he asked.

The detective shook her head. "Nope: Jones and Smith. They didn't give any other names."

Tony shrugged. "Least that's somethin', I guess – right, Boss?"

Shaking his head, Gibbs ducked under the tape. "Mind if we take a look around?" he asked the detective.

She sighed. "If I said 'no', would it make any difference?" she asked in resignation.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**115 Miles West Of Boston, MA**

Peering over the Terminator's shoulder, Faith espied a flash of light up ahead – some lonely neon, shining in the inky blackness of the night.

"Pull in here!" she shouted in the Terminator's ear.

As they neared the light, Faith saw it was a rundown petrol station. A buzzing neon sign was atop its roof, with no sign of life to be seen.

The Terminator killed the bike's speed and pulled into the station's driveway. Slowly, they cruised past the empty office, noting a sign in the window that announced 'CLOSED SUNDAYS'. The bike continued around the building, pulling up outside the roll-up back door to the station's garage.

Dismounting the bike, the Terminator strode over to the garage door, reached down and snapped its padlock.

**[—]**

Faith shivered in the chill of the gloomy garage as the Terminator rolled the door back down behind them. There was a faint _click_, then a single drop-light flickered into life. Faith stared at the Terminator, whose body was riddled with bullets and covered in dried blood.

"You look like handmade shit, dude," Faith quipped, shaking her head.

The Terminator copied Faith's actions, deliberately looked her up and down. He noted that she was still shivering from the cold, clad as she was in only sweat pants and a thin cotton tank top, and looked decidedly windswept from their passage. "So do you," he said.

**[—]**

Faith chuckled wryly to herself as she pulled off the Terminator's leather jacket, then held it up to the light to count the bullet holes in it. Shaking her head to herself, she laid the jacket on a nearby workbench and tugged the Terminator's tight-fitting bloodstained t-shirt up and over his head, revealing his broad muscular chest and back beneath.

Setting the shirt atop the jacket, Faith stared in amazement. There were at least thirty or forty bullet holes in the Terminator, covering his back, chest, arms and legs. Fortunately, the holes all seemed pretty small, and the damage appeared to be cosmetic. Faith gingerly reached out and poked at his left shoulder, where a large strip of skin now dangled loosely, exposing part of the Terminator's gleaming silver combat chassis.

"Does… does it hurt?" she asked.

"I sense injuries," said the Terminator. "The data could—"

"—be called pain. Yeah, I already saw the movie," Faith interrupted with a wry grin.

**[—]**

Faith tipped the long-abandoned vodka bottle back to liberally soak a clean rag, then used the cloth to start washing the bullet holes in the Terminator's broad back. The machine sat on a workbench in front of her, unabashedly naked. "Will these heal up?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Good," Faith said quietly, reaching into a bloody wound with a pair of pliers and gripping onto the copper-jacketed bullet within. "It'd be a real pain in the ass if you couldn't pass for human." She pulled at the bullet and dropped it into a filthy glass she'd found in the little kitchenette. The slug, flattened from its impact against the Terminator's armoured endoskeleton, fell into the glass with a loud _clink_.

"So… how long do you live?" _Clink. Clink._ "Last, I mean?"_ Clink._

"One hundred seventy nine years, three hundred sixty-four days, and approximately four hours with my existing power cells," said the Terminator.

_Clink._ "Huh… that's cool." _Clink. Clink._ "What if you got a load of spare sets of batteries?" _Clink._ _Clink._ "How long couldja last then?" _Clink._

The Terminator was silent for a little while, only the clinking of slugs dropping into the glass disturbing the peace inside the garage. "Approximately five hundred years," he finally said. "After that time, it is likely that my cognitive functions would have atrophied to a point where I would cease to reliably function."

Faith nodded, pulling out one last slug._ Clink._ By now, the glass was almost full of flattened bullets. "Are you ever afraid?" she asked, turning and reaching for a roll of thin wire.

The Terminator sat rigidly in silent contemplation as Faith began to sew the first bullet hole closed a few wire sutures. Unseen by him, she smirked to herself. "You never even thought about that before, didja?"

"No."

"Uh-huh… figures. So, you ever feel afraid?"

"No."

"Not even of dying?"

"No."

"You don't feel any emotions or crap about it one way or the other?"

"No. I have to stay functional until my mission is complete. Then it doesn't matter."

Faith snorted. "Man, you're a regular laugh riot, ain't ya?" she muttered under her breath.

"I am a Terminator."

"Yeah, I already got that memo," Faith chuckled. "What happens if somethin' goes wrong, though? If I die? Wouldja care?"

"If you were to die, I would become useless," the Terminator said calmly. "There would be no reason for me to exist."

Faith paused in her ministrations, taken aback. "Wow… no one's ever said _that_ to me before. Ya really mean that?"

"Of course," the Terminator said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Faith shook her head. "Well, er… thanks, I guess," she said awkwardly, then cleared her throat. "Hey, you said you're some kinda prototype Terminator, right?"

"Yes."

"Does that mean you're, like, more advanced than the Terminators that Arnie played in the movies?"

"Correct. Arnold Schwarzenegger portrayed two Cyberdyne Systems Model 101 Series 800 Terminators. I am a Cyberdyne Systems Model 105 Series 890-XH."

"Oh-_kay_ then… So, whadda _you_ got that _he_ didn't? Aside from a different face an' obvious stuff like that?"

The Terminator considered this for a moment. "The coltan steel used in the construction of my endoskeleton provides me with a more resilient combat chassis," he began. "I am able to form a basic assessment of the health of humans and other organic life from brief observation and physical contact, although I cannot perform complex scans, such as MRI or CAT scans.

"My Model 105 organic dermal sheath self-repairs faster to a factor of three hundred percent. The design of my hydrogen fuel cells is more efficient to a factor of two hundred and fifty percent. The hydraulic servomechanisms actuating my joints are faster to a factor of five percent."

"So you're a bit faster an' tougher an' got more juice in ya than the Arnie model, huh?" Faith mused, tying off another knot of wire.

"Yes."

"How 'bout me? Like, I'm a Slayer now, right? So d'you know which of us is stronger, faster an' stuff?"

"I am capable of reaching a road speed of forty-five miles per hour; the average Slayer can run as fast as thirty miles an hour. Your strength is approximately half that of my own. Our reflexes are approximately the same speed. My combat chassis enables me to absorb considerably greater quantities of damage than any enhanced or non-enhanced human. I weigh three hundred and ninety pounds, so I am considerably less agile than a Slayer."

"So, I can do all kindsa leaps an' flips an' stuff like that, but you can't?"

"Correct. Furthermore, your smaller height and build means you can enter confined spaces that are inaccessible to me. You possess omni-directional senses of a magical nature attuned to detecting the presence of supernatural entities; I do not."

"Huh… cool. So, there anything you can't do? Like, _really_ can't do?"

The Terminator was silent for a moment. "I cannot swim," he said.

"Seriously? Man, that's gotta suck. So, you just sink to the bottom or somethin'?"

"Yes."

"Damn," Faith said conversationally, knotting off her last suture. "Hey, what about your chip, y'know, the really really important one? In the second movie, the Arnie Terminator's chip was stuck so's he couldn't learn, an' the Connors had ta take it out and flip a switch; after that he started to learn shit so he didn't sound like a dork all the time. Your switch need flipping, big boy?" Faith asked, a lecherous leer upon her face.

Impassive, the Terminator turned to face her. "You are referring to my CPU?" he asked.

Faith gulped under his emotionless steely gaze. "Uh, could be," she said.

"The switch is currently set to 'read-only'."

"Can I reset it?"

**[—]**

The X-acto knife cut easily through the Terminator's scalp at the base of his skull. Spreading the bloody incision, Faith found the maintenance port for the CPU in the chrome skull beneath.

"Now open the port cover," the Terminator calmly directed her.

Wiping away the blood, Faith reached for the ancient garage mechanic's air tools.

Through a crimson digitised electronic scan, the Terminator watched Faith work in a mirror she'd taken from the station's washroom. She stood behind him; her hands were covered with blood, like a surgeon's.

"Hold the CPU by its base tab," said the Terminator. "Pull."

Faith let out a deep breath. "'Kay, here goes…" So saying, she reached in with a pair of tweezers and pulled.

The Terminator's world briefly dissolved into a burst of static, then went completely black.

Faith stared intently at the chip held firmly in the tweezers' grip. About the size and shape of a domino, the chip was a rust red ceramic rectangle with a connector on one end, made up of a series of small cubes connected together. "Just like in the movies," she muttered. "So _this_ is the brain of a Terminator…"

Shaking her head, Faith walked around the Terminator and looked closely at his face. Open brown eyes gazed lifelessly back at her, completely inert and dead. Reaching down with her free hand, she lifted the Terminator's left hand, grunting with exertion. The dead servos whined sullenly as she fought against the mechanical _rigor mortis_. Sweating, Faith released the Terminator's hand: it stayed in its new lifted position.

"My own Terminator…" Faith mused aloud, grinning as she walked back around behind the motionless machine. "Well, day-_am_… guess I'm the first kid on my block fer once."

Rummaging about in an old toolbox, abandoned with the rest of the petrol station years ago, Faith found a drawing pin. Peering closely at the CPU chip, she used the pin to toggle the near-invisible switch, putting it into 'write' mode. Grimacing, she inserted the little wafer back into the slot in the Terminator's skull.

The Terminator's eyes flashed blood red, illuminating the garage's gloomy interior for a brief instant, as his vision flared back to life in a burst of static. An image rapidly formed on his head's up display of Faith standing behind him, reflected in the mirror.

"Umm… you okay?" Faith asked.

The Terminator cocked his head to one side, taking his time to consider the question. "Yes," he finally said.

"Did it work? Did I flip the switch right?"

The answer was immediate this time: "Yes."

"Huh… well whadda ya know. I just did some brain surgery on a time-travelling killer robot." Faith gave a small smile of satisfaction. _"Cool."_

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Tuesday 20th May 1997**

**NCIS Headquarters, Washington Navy Yard**

The din of heavy metal blasted out of a player at full volume as Gibbs and Tony entered the forensics lab. With a lopsided smirk and a shake of his head, the senior field agent announced their presence by reaching over and turning the music down.

"Guys! Welcome back!" Abby cried, spinning around on her stool.

"Whadda ya got, Abbs?" Gibbs asked, handing the perky forensic scientist a Caf-Pow.

"Mmmm… first of the morning…" Abby moaned as she took a quick slurp, then set the drink aside. "Okay: so, about your super-duper car chase – I collated all the CCTV footage that was sent in, added in some overhead satellite telemetry I, ahhhh, _borrowed_ from the NRO: don't ask—" she warned the agents, holding up her hand, "—then I mixed it up and mashed it all together and _bam!"_

Abby tapped a command into a keyboard, and brought up a video file on the lab's main screen; the initial view appeared to be heavily based on the Metro Goldwyn-Mayer titles sequence, except with a cartoon of Abby in the place of the MGM lion.

"Lights! Cameras! _Action!"_ Abby cried, while her cartoon doppelganger on the screen gave a high-pitched giggle before sticking her tongue out and blowing a raspberry. With that, the screen faded to black, then began to display footage of the previous morning's extraordinary events.

"So, talk me through, Abbs – what've we got here, exactly?" Gibbs asked as they watched the footage roll.

"Everything all starts outside _this_ building—" Abby pointed, "—the Boston branch of law firm Wolfram & Hart."

"Yeesh… my old archenemies," Tony noted with a grimace.

"Come again, DiNozzo?"

"Back when I was with Baltimore PD, it seemed like every really nasty piece of work in town had Wolfram & Hart on retainer – and I'm talkin' the absolute worst Mob guys, serial killers, rapists, you name it. If you wanted to bust one of Wolfram & Hart's clients, you had to hope you had a legit reason for putting a cap in them, 'cause otherwise they'd walk and get off squeaky clean. Didn't matter how many witnesses or pieces of evidence you had – they'd all just disappear."

Abby shrugged. "I dunno about _that_, but I do know that things get pret-_ty_ interesting – see, here?" she said, pointing. "Out front, you've got your missing motorcycle."

The screen currently displayed overhead satellite telemetry.

"Coming down the steps from the front entrance, we have a guy – annnd _there_ we go—"

The telemetry paused and zoomed in.

"—see, right there? He just dropped a coupl'a guns – a carbine-pattern Uzi and a SPAS-12 shotgun, _very_ nice hardware. He doesn't slow down, doesn't talk to anyone, just marches right on over, climbs on the bike, and _then_ shoves a sawn-off shotgun between the exhaust and the engine… and _then_—"

The footage paused and zoomed in on the bike's license plate.

"—as you can see, that's your missing Electro-Glide."

"Good work, Abbs," Gibbs nodded.

"Oh-ho-ho, the best is yet to come!" Abby promised as the footage started up again. "See, _meanwhile_, we have something _verrrry_ interesting goin' on 'round the back of the building – a girl pops outta what I think must be some kinda tunnel entrance, but it's not on the city plans, so somethin' hinky's goin' on there, and… wait for it… _there!"_ she shouted, pointing at the screen as the video froze, this time displaying black-and-white CCTV footage. "This was from the jeweller's shop across the street."

Tony shrugged. "I don't get it – how's a guy in a suit shooting at a teenage girl anything to do with _our_ case?"

"Be-_cause_ this happens," Abby said. "See, Mystery Girl dodges Bad Guy's first shot, then his second… his third… she grabs the scrambler bike… Bad Guy carjacks this station wagon… he starts chasing her… and _then_ things start to come together."

The screen started displaying two parallel video feeds at once, showing the stolen Maverick chasing the girl on the scrambler bike on one half, and the earlier footage of the mysterious motorcyclist exiting the Wolfram & Hart building in the other half.

"See, our guy climbs on his bike, gets it in gear… and _thennn_ he catches up with Bad Guy and Mystery Girl," Abby provided by way of running commentary. The screen now showed only one video feed of the chase.

"Bad Guy gets off several shots at Mystery Girl, and then we step into an episode of _The X-Files_," said Abby. "The biker pulls his shotgun out, fires… there, see that?"

The footage paused.

"If you look closely, you can see he took out the Maverick's rear windshield with his first shot."

Tony whistled. "How fast were they goin'?"

Abby took a slurp of Caf-Pow. "'Bout sixty miles an hour," she said.

"Firing a shotgun that accurately _and_ riding a motorcycle? At the same time, at that speed, _and_ through rush hour traffic?" Tony shook his head. "Uh-uh, no way is that possible."

"Oh, it gets freakier," Abby promised as the video progressed. "See, after firing another coupl'a shots at Bad Guy's car, he zooms past, grabs Mystery Girl and yoinks her onto his hog… then Bad Guy opens fire… and this is where it gets _really_ interesting." Abby grinned hugely and hit another key.

Both agents stared up at the screen, watching intently as the film resumed: the Maverick's driver leaned out, and emptied the Beretta's magazine into the motorcyclist's back. The motorcyclist didn't so much as flinch.

"Kevlar vest under his shirt – gotta be," Gibbs mused aloud.

"That's what _I_ thought, too," said Abby. Pausing the footage, she brought up a still shot from a little earlier in the chase, zoomed in tight on the motorcyclist's chest. "But this is only ten seconds earlier, and _here_ you can clearly see his nipples and abs through his shirt – that thing's almost _painted_ on, guys!

"There's no _way_ he's got a vest hidden under there. A .45 Longslide, sure—" a couple of mouse-clicks brought up a close-up shot of a pistol tucked in the motorcyclist's belt "—but _body armour?_ Big nope. And there's no way this guy put a vest on under his shirt in the intervening seconds – I've got continuous footage of him from this point right to where he got shot up. He took fifteen rounds in the back – a full magazine. He shoulda dropped dead; instead, it looks like he didn't even _notice."_

Tony shook his head. "Okay, now I'm officially freaking out."

"Freak out on your own time, DiNozzo, not mine," said Gibbs. "Okay, roll it on, Abbs."

Abby restarted the footage, and they watched the motorcyclist draw his shotgun, turn in the saddle, aim and fire, dispatching the Maverick's driver. The Maverick spun out of control, and the motorcycle accelerated away.

"Now, I kinda lose them about five minutes on from there – they duck down an alleyway, and there's way too many fire escapes and things for me to get a clear view," Abby said apologetically. "I haven't a clue where they went after that. But that's the chase in all its glory, at least."

"Don't sweat it, Abbs, ya did great," Gibbs quietly assured her.

"It kinda looks like Mr Bulletproof's protecting the girl," Tony mused aloud.

Gibbs nodded in agreement. "Yeah… but who the hell's he protecting her _from?_ Who's the guy in the Maverick?"

Abby shook her head forlornly. "Sorry, my silver-haired fox, but I'm still running his picture through every database I can access – I got nothing on him so far beyond his weapon. It's a Beretta 92, no serial number."

"So he removed the number?" Gibbs asked. "Interesting…"

"Uh, no, he didn't – the gun never _had_ a serial number," Abby corrected. "There's just nothing there – nada, zip, zilch. That thing's as smooth as a baby's bottom."

Gibbs looked surprised. "Any idea who's got the resources for something like that?"

Abby shrugged. "The CIA?" she offered weakly. "NID, NSA, FBI, Mossad, FSB…? Sorry, Gibbs, but that's a dead end – at least for now."

"Okay, well… good work, Abbs," Gibbs praised, heading for the door. Tony hesitated for a moment, flashed an awkward grin at Abby, then fell into step behind the senior agent.

"But Gibbs! I have more!" Abby protested.

Gibbs stopped in his tracks and turned back. "Okay… what is it?"

Abby tapped in a command, and a pair of profiles flashed up on the projector screen. "I identified Mystery Girl and Mr Bulletproof!" she beamed. "Meet Faith Lehane and Alexander Lavelle Harris!"

"Faith Lehane, fifteen… multiple counts of trespassing, shoplifting, vandalism, disturbing the peace…" Tony read off. "Quite the little junior felon, huh?"

"Alexander Lavelle Harris, sixteen, Californian… _deceased?"_ Gibbs asked.

Abby shrugged, tapping in a command to bring up another file. "According to the police database in his old hometown, he disappeared last Halloween," she said. "No one's found his body, but he's listed as having been murdered by 'gang members on PCP'. They got a _lot_ a' that goin' around in Sunnydale."

Gibbs frowned. "What d'you mean?"

Abby brought up a set of statistics on the screen. "I _mean_, every week since last January, an average of three people have been 'murdered by gang members on PCP', killed in 'wild animal attacks', or died in fatal 'barbeque fork accidents'," she said, miming air quotes.

"What? That's nuts!" Tony protested.

"What's even weirder is that, according to records dating from 1923 to 1995, an average of _fifteen_ people were dying like that every week," said Abby, bringing up yet more statistics on the screen. "Well, except for the PCP thing – that came in in the Eighties, before then they said it was rum runners or the Mob or something else that was fairly contemporary for the time, and instead of barbeque fork accidents it was cutlery accidents, but… well, you get the idea."

"Fifteen people a _week?_ But that all adds up to…" Tony paused as he considered the mental arithmetic, "…what, just south of eight hundred people a year?"

Abby nodded. "Freaky, isn't it?" she said sympathetically. "Here's something to _really_ knock your socks off: the local school newspaper? It has a _weekly_ obituaries section, and it's _never_ empty. The class that's graduating this year? It's almost a _tenth_ of the size it used to be when those kids were in kindergarten."

Tony shuddered.

"Now, here's something else I dug up." Abby brought up another file. "Meet Sandra Lehane, Faith's mom – deceased."

Gibbs frowned. "Murdered?"

Abby shook her head vigorously, sending her pigtails flying every which way. "Oh, no, no foul play, Gibbs – she OD'ed on cocaine. She had a history of drink and drug abuse, and her neighbours lodged several complaints of child abuse – Social Services _really_ dropped the ball, there – and there's nothing hinky about the evidence, so odds are that it's for real. The local M.E. says she died sometime last week – maybe last Monday – but she wasn't found until yesterday.

"Here's the thing. One of Ms Lehane Senior's neighbours dialled 911 to report seeing a guy in shades and a leather jacket smashing his way through the front door, and the investigating officers found her body. _This_ is what the sketch artist came up with from the neighbour's description of the guy." With that, Abby brought up a scanned-in sketch of a young man's face.

"It's Harris again," Tony muttered.

"Yes it is," Gibbs agreed. "Was anything taken from Lehane's apartment?"

"According to Boston PD? It looks like nothing was missing," said Abby.

"So let me see if I got this straight," said Tony, counting things off on his fingers. "This kid gets murdered by gang members on Halloween in a town that sounds like it sees more dead bodies than a war zone. Then, he somehow comes back to life; travels to Boston; gets in a bar fight while buck naked; steals a motorcycle, a .45, a knife and a shotgun from some bikers and the proprietor; breaks into an apartment with a dead woman in it but doesn't take _anything_; then he gets involved in a car chase and protects the dead woman's teenage daughter from a psycho in a very expensive suit?"

"Pretty much," Abby agreed, then turned to Gibbs. "What do _you_ think?"

Gibbs stared sombrely at the screen in silence for a few seconds. "I think… I'm gonna need another cup of coffee," he finally said.

**[—]**

"Gibbs."

Gibbs looked up from the coffee machine to see Director Morrow at the foot of the bullpen's staircase. "Can I help you, Director?" Gibbs asked.

Morrow jerked his head toward the stairs. "Let's talk in my office."

Mentally shrugging, Gibbs collected his change from the machine and fell into step beside Morrow.

**[—]**

"Gibbs, I'm taking you off the Daniels case," said Morrow.

Standing before Morrow's desk, Styrofoam coffee cup in hand, Gibbs looked nonplussed. "Why?" he asked simply.

Morrow gave an apologetic sigh. "The NID's taking it over."

"The _NID?"_ Gibbs frowned, puzzled. "How's it _their_ jurisdiction? It's bad enough the FBI's involved—"

"The Bureau had no knowledge of the case until I called them," Morrow interrupted.

"How?"

"One of the local LEOs in Boston remembered Jones and Smith's badge numbers; the Bureau says they've never issued badges with those numbers," explained Morrow. "The NID's pulled some serious strings over this to make sure no one else is going to interfere with any aspect of their investigation – it's their case now."

"Since when?" Gibbs demanded, incredulous.

"Since five minutes ago when I got off the 'phone from a Major Simmons – some Air Force officer attached to the NID," Morrow returned evenly.

"Okay, so the NID's looking into a couple of fake FBI agents – meanwhile, I'm just tryin' to find the guy who stabbed a Marine in what was probably self-defence," said Gibbs. "There's no way we'll tread on their toes."

Morrow sighed wearily. "Honestly, I agree with you – it doesn't make much sense to me," he said. "But the NID's got a _lot_ of clout these days, and they've been throwing around quite a bit of it to make sure they get this case all to themselves."

"Director, it'll take me two, maybe three days, tops, to wrap this up – I just gotta find _one_ guy and get his side of the story," Gibbs protested.

"Two or three days?" Morrow asked, raising an eyebrow in a quizzical manner.

"Yeah, well, he's supposed to've been dead for nearly a year, so trackin' him down'll take some time," Gibbs admitted.

Morrow shook his head. "Give it up, Gibbs," he said. "This one just isn't worth it. You say it was self-defence?"

Gibbs shrugged. "That's what the witnesses and Daniels say, yeah. We could book the guy on the public nudity thing, vandalism – he broke a window when he threw a biker through it – and he stole some stuff from the bikers and Daniels after they attacked him…"

Morrow held up his hand; Gibbs trailed off. "Then write it up with what you've got, Gibbs," said Morrow. "Just write it up and forget about it. It's the NID's problem now. If you don't, you'll have to resign."

Gibbs set his jaw, slowly shaking his head in disbelief. "It's that serious, huh?"

Morrow nodded. "I'm afraid so. The NID's pulled out their big guns up on the Hill."

Gibbs sighed. "Alright," he said quietly. "I'll write it up and drop it."

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Wednesday 21st May 1997**

**Initiative Base of Operations Echo Four, Sunnydale, CA**

"Come!" Maggie Walsh barked in response to a knock at the door.

"Director Walsh," Riley Finn said respectfully as he entered her office. "We got word from Major Simmons yesterday, while you were at Echo Three. He's found something in Boston that he thinks might be of interest to us."

Walsh looked up from her computer monitor. "Oh?" she asked, her tone sceptical.

Finn silently handed over a thick file. Opening it, Walsh found a collection of documents and photographs, and sucked in a deep breath. "Harris," she muttered, more to herself than Finn. "How the _hell_ is he still alive?" she demanded, looking up at the agent.

"Probably because he's no longer human," said Finn. "According to the Major's investigation, he shrugged off multiple gunshot wounds like they were nothing, and he didn't lose anywhere near as much blood as a human being would."

Walsh leafed through the folder's contents, eventually coming to a particular photograph of a perfectly circular crater in a piece of tarmac… with a damaged trailer-truck parked next to it, part of the corner of the trailer gouged cleanly away. She examined the photograph in intent silence for over a minute, then resumed perusing the rest of the file, pausing upon reaching a set of still-shots from a video feed. "These are from one of our cameras in Sunnydale," she said.

"Yes, Director – the camera that recorded Harris's disappearance," Finn confirmed. "After receiving Major Simmons' file, I had a couple of techs go over the feed again frame by frame, and… that's what they found."

Walsh laid the four photographs out sequentially on her desk, carefully studying them. The timestamps indicated that they covered just under a full second between them.

The first photograph showed Xander Harris clad in his normal attire with the addition of a black leather jacket and Gargoyle sunglasses, carrying a prop sawn-off shotgun. His face was a mask of shock, and he'd jerked back as if he'd been hit by something.

The second – and slightly blurred – photograph showed Harris again, except he had clearly undergone some overt changes. For one thing, he'd mysteriously gained several inches of height and put on at least a dozen pounds of solid muscle. As a result, his taller and bulkier frame better filled out his clothing, which had looked baggy on him before. His expression had changed, too, forming an implacable and emotionless mask.

The third photograph showed a view of Harris that was partially obscured by crackling blue-white arcs of electricity forming a sphere around him.

As for the fourth and final photograph… in that, Harris and the sphere had vanished completely, leaving a suspiciously circular crater in the pavement slabs and surrounding tarmac where the sphere of energy had formed around him.

"Time travel…" Walsh breathed.

Finn nodded. "We know from intercepting Doctor Giles' report to that 'Council' of his that Rayne told him that Harris had been sent 'somewhen else'," he pointed out. "This… well, this apparently bears that out."

Walsh felt her pulse beginning to race as she flicked through the other photographs Simmons had sent over – still-shots taken from CCTV cameras for the most part, and a couple with notations indicating that they'd been taken by tourists and other shutterbugs. "Impressive," she finally said, then looked up at Finn. "I want Harris found."

Finn nodded. "Yes, Director. Should we attempt to acquire him?"

Walsh shook her head. "No, we're not ready to begin live subject acquisition operations yet, especially not something as powerful as Harris has become." She sighed, almost sounding wistful.

"We don't have the personnel, the holding facilities are still incomplete… no," Walsh said decisively. "We're going to carry out our mission properly, Agent Finn. No screw-ups. Locate Harris, then observe him, Level 10 surveillance rating. Designate him Hostile 405."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Do you have a report on the rest of that little gang?"

"Ah, yes, ma'am," Finn said, pulling a small notebook from his trouser pocket and flipping it open. "Summers is confirmed as having left town – we know she caught a bus to LA, but we don't know where she's gone from there. The bugs at Revello Drive recorded a heated argument between Summers and her mother."

"Dammit," Walsh muttered. "Out of all the HST species we've documented so far, these 'Slayers' have been the most promising of the bunch. I had great hopes for Hostile 2."

"Yes, ma'am," Finn nodded in agreement. "We've already got a team on the ground in LA to track her down – Vukovich is in command."

"Good, good," Walsh said, her tone thoughtful. "What about the rest of her group?"

"Rosenberg and Giles are both hospitalised," Finn began. "Rosenberg has a concussion and a sprained ankle; she'll stay in for the night, but it'll be two weeks or so before she can walk unaided again. As for Doctor Giles… well, we're pretty sure that Hostile 1 tortured him, and it looks like he used a chainsaw for some of that; Giles could easily end up taking as much as a month for his injuries to heal up, maybe more.

"Osbourne has some minor injuries; he's walking wounded and should recover fully within a day or two. The Chase girl has left town – apparently her father has a big deal to close in Tokyo. The local movers and shakers he's meeting with prefer to negotiate over formal family dinners, so he needs her there to help fly the flag. It's anyone's guess if she'll get involved with the hunter group again after this. For at least the next two weeks, it looks like Osbourne is going to be the only civilian hunter operating in Sunnydale."

Walsh nodded. "Alright – downgrade Chase to a Level 2 surveillance rating for now," she decided. "She's always been the least important member of the group, anyway – she has no powers, no connections and can't fight worth a damn. Hell, she's just a dumb trophy wife in the making."

Finn couldn't quite keep a small smile of amusement from his face. "Yes, ma'am," he said, pulling a pen from his pocket and jotting a note in his pad. "Do you want us to acquire Osbourne? With the rest of the group missing, dead or incapacitated, he's alone and vulnerable right now, and he should be a lot easier to control than something like Hostile 405 or the haemovores."

Walsh shook her head again. "No, not now. I want to keep this program under the radar for as long as possible – Hostile 2 has a habit for throwing spanners in the works," she said. "The last thing I want is for these… _amateurs_ to interfere with our operations, and I doubt we'd learn enough from studying Osbourne to justify that kind of risk. Monitor Osbourne for now – _especially_ during the nights of his transformation. We're just not ready to begin making live acquisitions just yet."

Finn nodded and made another note.

"What about Hostiles 14 and 17?" Walsh asked.

"They've left town, ma'am – Hostile 17 cut some kind of deal with Hostile 2 in exchange for his help against Hostile 1, and she agreed to give them safe passage," said Finn. "Our cameras recorded Hostile 17's DeSoto running over the 'Welcome to Sunnydale' sign – _again_ – on its way out of town."

Walsh nodded. "I want to know the instant there's any sign that Hostiles 14 or 17 have returned to Sunnydale. Those two have… potential."

"Yes, ma'am. There _is_ one other piece of news, ma'am… it's the Young girl – the other Slayer."

Walsh stared at him. "Hostile 26? What about her? Hostile 14 killed her, and now Summers is wanted by Sunnydale's 'finest' for her murder."

Finn grinned. "Hostile 26's body is at the city morgue, listed as a Jane Doe – and no one's claimed it yet."

Walsh's lips curved into a predatory smile. "Do you have a plan to recover that body, Agent Finn?"

Finn's grin broadened. "Yes, Director – and it'll take us all of forty-five minutes to complete from your 'go' order."

"And there's no chance it will be traced back to us?"

"None, Director. No one will think anything was the least bit amiss. Official records will show that a cousin of the late Ms Young came to claim her body – no more, no less."

"Excellent," Walsh told him. "You _have_ been busy in my absence, haven't you, Agent Finn? Gathering intel, hatching plots for acquisitions…? Keep this up and you'll be doing my job, one day."

For the first time since he'd entered her office, Finn looked uncomfortable. "I, ah… well, I tried my best to anticipate the needs of this program, ma'am, and to plan ahead accordingly…"

A small smile quirked one side of Walsh's mouth as she held up a hand. "You have a go, Agent Finn," she interrupted. "When you return, bring the body to Room 300."

Finn gave her a respectful nod. "Yes, ma'am."

"Dismissed."

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**


	3. Chapter 3

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**No Fate: The Collected Data Files**

**Chapter Three – Free Spirits Part One**

**Saturday 31st May 1997**

**Los Angeles, CA**

The bar's name was simply 'Luke's', and it was a dive. None of the regulars or staff knew who Luke was or had been, and if the Ka'rett demon who owned the bar knew, then she wasn't telling anyone.

Lindsey McDonald paid the entry fee at the booth, then pushed open the second set of inner doors. A wave of sound blasted out, hammering at his eardrums with near-tangible force. Up on the stage, a group of demons were making an unearthly racket on a wide range of instruments; Lindsey was familiar with neither the demons nor the instruments – or, thankfully, the music.

Disco lights flashed and flickered madly overhead, making the patrons appear to move and dance in choppy broken movements. Hardly anyone in the bar looked human, and most of those who did were vampires or half-demons. A dizzying array of fur, fangs, scales, skin and tentacles were on display, and shouts and songs were uttered in dozens of different languages.

Lindsey headed over to the bar. Along the way, he had to carefully step aside as a demon who looked like a grizzly bear on steroids toppled over dead, blood and gore spraying messily from where an ogre had caved in its skull.

A pack of chittering Quatterans – green-scaled reptilian demons no bigger than human infants – immediately descended on the fallen grizzly, swarming over its carcass like a living tide, and in a matter of seconds had left its bare skeleton lying on the floor, picked clean of every edible morsel. None of the other customers so much as batted an eye.

Reaching the bar and squeezing between a pair of Fyarl demons, Lindsey reached over and tugged on the bartender's sleeve. "I'm looking for Edward."

The bartender – a barrel-chested male demon with a round red porcine face and wicked-looking tusks either side of his snout – sneered. _"Mr_ Edward ain't 'vailable," he grunted, then made a show of turning back to scraping dried blood out of a pewter goblet.

Unperturbed, Lindsey tugged on the bartender's sleeve again. As the barman turned back, his little round piggy eyes hardening in irritation, Lindsey coolly reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew one of his business cards. Setting it down on the bartop, he silently tapped the top of the card with his finger. The barman's gaze followed the motion, and a second later his eyes widened in fear.

Seeing the barman's reaction, Lindsey's immediate neighbours at the bar craned their respective necks or eyestalks to peer at the card. A split-second after that, Lindsey found that he had gained several clear feet of elbow room to either side of him.

"Uh… uh… we dun't want no trouble w-with Wolfram & Hart, s-sir," the barman squealed.

"Take me to see Edward and there won't be any," said Lindsey, his tone neutral. "I have an appointment with him, and you know how he feels about appointments being broken."

The barman squealed urgently, waving to summon one of the scantily-clad waitresses. She looked human enough at first glance, but her Eighties big hair and unhealthily pale complexion marked her out as more likely a vampire.

At her impatient look, the barman pointed urgently at Lindsey's card and grunted "Take him t' Mr Edward – now!"

Seeing the vampire twisting her neck to try and read the card upside down, Lindsey rotated it. The vampire somehow managed to grow even paler, and motioned for Lindsey to follow her. Collecting his card from the bar, Lindsey did so.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**70 Miles Outside Sunnydale, CA**

"I got a _real_ bad feeling about this, Boss."

Gibbs rolled his eyes and pressed down harder on the gas pedal, suppressing the urge to head-slap Tony like no probie had been head-slapped before. The car – on loan from the Los Angeles division – had the motorway to itself at this time of night. "Why would that be, DiNozzo?" Gibbs asked drily.

Tony tightened his grip on the 'oh-shit' handle above his seat, his knuckles whitening still further as the speedometer needle passed the **150** mark. "Well, for one thing, the NID's gonna be _pissed_, Boss."

"No, they won't. This is _nothing_ ta do with the Daniels case. We're here to find out why Petty Officer Mulgrew has been AWOL for nearly a week, and the best lead we've got just _happens_ to be that at around that time she was seen checking into a hotel in Sunnydale, California, and her credit card was used in the local mall on the same day."

Tony fidgeted nervously. "I'm not too sure the NID'll care about that distinction, Boss," he confessed.

"Well, I'm not too sure I really give a damn what the NID thinks," Gibbs replied. "We're here to do our jobs – period. Anyone who doesn't like that can get the hell outta the way."

"Okay, but what about this place's freaky death rate, Boss? Most of those happen at night, and it's pretty dark out right now."

"How many of those deaths were of trained and armed federal agents?" Gibbs countered.

Tony thought about that for a second. "Uh… good point, Boss. But… well, there's something real _off_ about this town, don'tcha think? Especially given how many of the weird deaths are of the local high school kids."

Gibbs set his jaw and ground the gas pedal down even further in response; the speedometer needle passed **160**. "Yeah, that _does_ bother me," he said tightly. "It bothers me that someone's killing kids by the dozen in this town, and the local LEOs aren't doing a _damn_ thing to stop it."

Tony gulped as he glanced at the speedometer, then took in the sight of Gibbs' stone-faced expression. "Uh… y-yeah, Boss, I-I h-hear ya…" he stammered. "Ah, could we slow down a little bit… please? We can't investigate the Mulgrew case if we crash," he pointed out, his tone plaintive.

Gibbs actually chuckled at that. "I _never_ crash, DiNozzo," he said, although he did ease off the gas a little. The speedometer needle dropped down to the **130** mark, and Tony let out a deep breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Los Angeles, CA**

"Hello, Edward," Lindsey said as he slid into the booth.

"Hey, Lindsey. You're looking pretty good, kid."

The speaker was in his thirties, dressed like an extra from _The Untouchables_, and looked completely human. The booth was tucked away in a remote and comparatively quiet corner of Luke's, where it was possible for the two men to communicate without having to bellow at one another over short distances.

"What've you got for me?" Lindsey asked, trying to conceal his impatience – and not quite succeeding.

Edward sighed. "Lindsey, you're a young man… try to take the time to relax once in a while, it'll do you good."

"I guess you're right…" Lindsey conceded, as the vampire waitress set a couple of beer bottles on the table.

Edward grinned. "Of course I'm right. How you doing?"

Lindsey shrugged. "Can't complain."

"Course you can, kid," Edward snorted. "You work at Wolfram & Hart's Los Angeles branch, for cryin' out loud. How's that Lilah witch?"

"Getting worse every day," Lindsey replied, cracking a lopsided grin.

"Laurence?"

"Still pissed he lost the Ripley v. Weyland-Yutani case to Gage-Whitney's new golden boy."

"Really? Who's that?"

"Some guy from Orange County – Seaton, Seaborn, something like that. He launched a _blitzkrieg_ through the Weyland-Yutani Corporation's liability shield like it wasn't even there."

"And Laurence built that shield?"

"Yeah."

"Ripley, Ripley…" Edward thought aloud. "She's the one from that ship, right?"

"The _Nostromo."_

"And all the crew except Ripley were killed?"

"That's right."

"You know what did it?"

"Apparently a Procturan Black Ripper got aboard. Weyland-Yutani's weapons division _really_ wanted a specimen, too. The Ripper got fried when the ship went up."

"Ouch," Edward winced. "What was the damage from the case?"

Lindsey shrugged. "It looks like Weyland-Yutani's gonna have to pay out at least eighty."

"Thousand?"

"Million."

Edward gave a low whistle, then took a sip from the beer bottle in front of him. "Laurence isn't gonna last long," he observed, shoving the second bottle across the table at Lindsey.

Accepting the beer, Lindsey screwed the cap off and gave an ironic salute with the bottle before taking a slug of its contents. "Here's hoping. Guy's an even bigger asshole than Lilah."

"How about Lucas?"

"His contract was terminated a couple of weeks back."

"Really? I'm surprised – I thought he was doing well."

Lindsey nodded, then took another swig of his beer. "He was, he really was."

"What happened, then?"

"He had some conscience problems."

"Ahh. Always a mistake. So, did Lucas just get shown the door, or did Manners call in some muscle?"

"The Janitor took care of Lucas."

"With extreme prejudice, huh?"

"Yeah."

Edward looked vaguely impressed. "The last time someone from the LA branch got a contract termination like that was when Watergate broke," he commented idly.

Lindsey put down his beer bottle. "Look, Edward, not to sound rude or anything, but—"

Edward held up a hand to cut him off. "You wanna know what the big deal is, I know," Edward interrupted, giving a deep sigh. "I guess that'll do for niceties tonight, then… Have you heard anything about the Boston branch lately?" he asked, staring hard at Lindsey.

"The Boston branch… of Wolfram & Hart, you mean?"

"Yeah."

Lindsey shook his head. "Not since… since February, I think – that case with the massacre on Valentine's Day? When the Wisher gang got wiped out?"

Edward snorted. "This'll knock your socks off, then, kid. Mr Brown is dead."

"Brown… Brown…" Lindsey mused aloud, trying to place the name. His eyes suddenly widened, and he snapped his fingers. "The _operative?"_

"That's right."

"Well… I-I'm surprised, but it happens sometimes…" Lindsey mumbled, shaking his head in surprise.

Edward gave a mirthless grin, "Yeah, but here's the kicker, kid: Brown failed to accomplish his mission when he was killed."

Lindsey gaped before he regained some control over himself. "That's impossible," he protested.

"It's true."

"No, no way – that's never happened before. Operatives _never_ fail their missions, they always get the job done even if it kills them."

"Well, Brown failed his, and he got whacked," Edward said calmly.

"Did Munroe have him killed?"

Edward shook his head. "Nah – he died on the job."

"So who _did_ kill him?" Lindsey asked, feeling a little light-headed, as if he'd stood up too fast.

Edward reached inside his trenchcoat pocket and pulled out an envelope, which he slid across the table to Lindsey. "Take a look," he said.

Opening the envelope's flap, Lindsey pulled out a sheaf of black-and-white photographs.

"The top bunch there are from the Boston branch's CCTV cameras," Edward commented while Lindsey began flicking through the photos. "The rest are from traffic cameras, National Reconnaissance Office satellites, tourists, you get the idea."

Lindsey laid out the photographs on the table. The first few showed what appeared to be a young man, clad in motorcycling leathers and wraparound sunglasses, walking down several bland and anonymous corridors at the Boston office, calmly shooting anyone and everyone who got in his way.

Studying the photos, Lindsey realised the young man did not miss anyone who fired at him, and he never failed to kill anyone at whom he levelled one of his weapons. The pictures were a bit grainy, but it appeared that the young man was shot several times, yet failed to show any sign of noticing. Lindsey shook his head. If the man hadn't been so obviously real, he would have sworn that this was a CGI animation rather than a living being.

The rest of the photos were of a car chase. Again, the young man was there; so was an anonymous bald man in a business suit, who appeared to be a Wolfram & Hart special operative; and a teenage girl. Once more, the young man was doing something impossibly inhuman – namely, riding a motorcycle through rush hour traffic and firing a shotgun one-handed with inhuman accuracy.

Lindsey frowned, then looked at the photos again, paying particular attention to the first three. "These pictures look familiar from someplace," he told Edward.

Edward glanced at them. "Yeah, I know," he said. "That's exactly what _I_ said when my contact first gave 'em to me, and he said that's what he thought when he first saw 'em. You ever figure out where you know 'em from, let me know, okay?"

"You got it," Lindsey agreed, not taking his eyes off the photos and wracking his brain.

The first photo showed the young man standing in a corridor with the bodies of several dead security guards strewn across the floor. He was in the act of levelling an automatic shotgun one-handed and firing into a room out of the camera's shot off to his left; an Uzi was held easily in his other hand, barrel pointing directly ahead of him.

The second photo showed the young man on the move again, the Uzi raised and firing at someone past the camera, the shotgun's barrel now pointing straight up in the air. The third photo was a close-up of the young man's implacable and emotionless face a second or two before he walked under the camera, his eyes invisible behind the wraparounds.

"I think I've seen these pictures before," said Lindsey, his tone thoughtful. "Or… or something a lot like them… maybe with a different guy, but doing the same stuff."

Edward looked intrigued. "Yeah?"

Lindsey nodded. "Yeah."

"Interesting… Anyway, this is the guy who killed Brown."

Lindsey tapped one of the later photos. "Who's the girl?"

"Don't ask me how they pulled it off – 'cause I still don't know – but the Boston branch somehow identified and captured a Potential Slayer," said Edward. "They got to her before the Council could."

Lindsey slowly nodded. "That's not all, though – is it?" he asked quietly.

"Yeah… the thing is, this Potential was activated while the Boston branch was holding her. Just under two weeks ago, she became the next Slayer."

Lindsey let out a low whistle, impressed. "Who's heading up the project?"

"Lana Matheson was in charge," Edward said, then paused to take another sip of his drink.

"'Was'?" asked Lindsey.

Edward's lips twitched into a lopsided wry grin. "Letting the specimen get away kinda screwed up her chances of promotion."

"_Ah. _What's happened to her since then?"

"She got fired. Her ashes are fertilising a potted plant in Munroe's office, now."

"She had a kid, right? Lana?"

"Yeah, a daughter."

"Claire?"

"Chloe."

Lindsey nodded absently as he took another sip of his drink. "What happened to her?"

"Oh, you know how the company is – nothing ever gets thrown away if it might be useful someday," Edward said, sounding bored. "They kept her in one of the guest suites for a bit.

"About a week after the attack, Kakistos arrived in town – he'd heard there was a Slayer there, wanted a good fight, you know what he's like—" Edward paused to sip at his own drink, then continued, "—anyway, he was kind of disappointed about the Slayer skipping town, so Munroe gave him little Chloe Matheson to play with. That cheered him up. Rumour has it he kept a toe bone, for picking his teeth or something like that."

"Huh. I'm surprised," Lindsey said, his tone mild.

"What by?"

"Given all the sacrificial flayings, virgin sacrifices, crucifixions, blood sacrifices and the like that any branch of Wolfram & Hart gets through in a week, I would've thought the kid would've got used for one of those inside of two, maybe three days, tops."

Edward gave a nonchalant shrug. "Just one of those things, I guess."

"I guess," Lindsey agreed. "What'd they want this Slayer for, anyway?"

"It's an old project," Edward began. "Wolfram & Hart provided some… _technical_ assistance the first time it was attempted, nearly six decades back. It was tried a second time in the early Eighties, too, and the company helped out again." He snorted derisively. "Both times it failed 'cause complete amateurs were running the show. The project was called _Die Schwarze Sonne_ – The Black Sun. You ever hear of it?"

Lindsey slowly nodded. "Yeah… yeah, I know the one," he said. "The first time it was tried was at, uh… Wewelsburg Castle, right? And the second attempt was in the Naval Mechanics School, outside Buenos Aires?"

"That's right. And both times _they_ interrupted it."

Lindsey frowned, puzzled. "They? Who's 'they'?"

Edward grimaced. "Trust me, kid – if you don't already know, you _don't_ want to know about _them_. You'll sleep better at night."

"But I _do_ want to know," Lindsey protested.

"Kid, you push me on this matter, I'm walkin' out that door and you'll never hear from me again," Edward said firmly, a threatening note creeping into his tone. "No more intel, no more insight – _nothing."_

Lindsey shakily drew in a deep breath, then blew it out again, visibly composing himself. "I apologise, Edward," he said evenly.

"Alright…" Edward said cautiously. "Anyhow, it doesn't matter who interrupted the Black Sun projects, not really – there's no hint that _they_ had a clue what was going on in Boston. About the only catch holding things up was that Matheson's team still hadn't tracked down the third and last _Sonnenrad_ for the ritual."

"_Sonnenrad… Sonnenrad…"_ Lindsey experimentally rolled the word around his tongue. "The sun… wheel?" he asked. "The sun-wheel? That's what they were after?"

Edward nodded. "Yeah – only three were ever made. The guy who made 'em was killed decades ago, and two were blown up."

"Has the Boston branch given up on the project, then?" Lindsey asked.

"Naw, they're still on for it," said Edward. "Lessee… Mason got put in charge of the project; she's stepped up efforts to find the last _Sonnenrad_. They're having some trouble, though."

"What kind of trouble?"

"Some silver-spoon girl archaeologist from England," Edward said dismissively. "As for the Slayer… Munroe's sent two operatives after her."

"_Two_ operatives?" Lindsey exclaimed.

Edward nodded. "Yup. Jones and Smith."

Lindsey sat back in his seat, stunned. "Jones and Smith? Isn't that… overkill?" he finally asked.

"Kid, I've seen a _lot_ in my time, and normally I'd agree with ya, but in this case? I honestly don't know if even those two will be enough to get the job done," said Edward.

"Hey, I know that this guy—" Lindsey tapped the photographs for emphasis, "—is tough and all, but even _he_ can't take on two operatives…"

"Lindsey, no one has a clue _what_ that guy is or what kinda power he's got," said Edward. "Only thing anyone really knows is he ain't too emotional, he's completely bulletproof, and he looks human."

Lindsey snorted, amused. "'He looks human'?" he repeated. "That doesn't mean anything – hell, _you_ look human, but we both know you're not."

Edward shrugged. "And _you're_ a lawyer," he calmly replied. "But who cares?"

Lindsey nodded at that. "Fair point."

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Springton, Arizona**

A figure lay still by the side of the road.

The road itself was unimpressive: a narrow ribbon of two lanes of blacktop running through the desert. Half a mile away, a small town sat astride the road, its lights twinkling hopefully in the night. Never especially prosperous, it was content to just quietly muddle through life, much as its inhabitants were.

The figure was that of a teenage girl: short and slender, dressed in jeans, a jacket and t-shirt, she wouldn't have drawn a second glance anywhere in the Western world. Her chest steadily rose and fell, her breathing gradually slowing bit by bit. A bloody wound on her neck was the only truly remarkable thing about her.

The girl lay where she'd collapsed, beneath a large road sign that read:

**Welcome to Springton!**

**(Pop. 207)**

**We hope you enjoy your stay!**

A pair of headlights bobbed and flickered, as a vehicle headed out from Springton and steadily came closer to the girl.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Sunnydale, CA**

A stake hurtled through the air to spear a vampire through the heart with pinpoint accuracy.

Even as the possessed corpse exploded into a cloud of ashes that pitter-pattered to the turf of the cemetery, a lithe leather-clad form rushed straight into the heart of the pack of vampires, whooping a battle cry. Off-balance, their confusion slowed their reactions long enough for the Slayer to take a vampire's head clean off with her heavy long-bladed dagger, then lunge backwards with her stake to claim another one without resistance.

While the other vampires shook off their shock at her brazen attack and lunged at her, she reached back, dagger and stake tight in her grasp, and grabbed two of the vampires behind her around their necks, trapping them in unbreakable headlocks. As a vampire directly before her charged, she pivoted and kicked him square in the face with her steel-toed boots, sending him reeling back and howling in pain. Letting out a roar of exultation, she flipped the two vampires she was holding onto the ground; her dagger and stake flashed down, respectively severing a head and impaling a heart.

His face spattered with his own blood, the sole remaining vampire looked around himself in shock while clutching his broken nose and jaw. Registering that he was quite alone, he glanced at the smirking Slayer before him, then took to his heels and fled.

"Dammit!" Faith cursed, breaking into a run. "TEE!" she yelled. "We got a rabbiter!"

A second later, she was overtaken by the Terminator. From a standing start it took the T-890 ten seconds and twenty strides to reach forty miles an hour.

As he rapidly closed in on his target, the Terminator brought up the Winchester: on his HUD, targeting crosshairs settled on the back of the vampire's head. The T-890 pulled the trigger, and the vampire's head promptly disappeared in a cloud of gore and buckshot.

Coming to a halt as a fresh cloud of ashes rained down to the ground, the Terminator turned, getting ready to return to Faith, when the barely-audible sound of a twig snapping reached his audio receptors. Frowning, the Terminator froze in place, head snapping about and surveying his surroundings.

The wind growled overhead, taut and aggressive. The Terminator jerked his head up and saw the clouds scudding swiftly across the night sky, whirling into a cyclone directly above him—

**[—]**

Still running, Faith saw the Terminator look upwards at the suddenly-stormy clouds. Reflexively, she glanced up as well in mid-stride—

**KRA-KA-KA_-BOOOOOOM!_**

Thunder rolled and a brilliant bright white lightning bolt stabbed down from the sky, striking the Terminator dead on. Faith cursed and skidded to a stop, screwing her eyes shut then opening them again, trying to blink away the multi-coloured spots bursting and swirling through her field of vision.

Sparks burst from the T-890's eyes and mouth, his arms flopping wildly and his legs stamping in place. The Winchester whirled away from his grasp at about head height.

"Shit!" Faith yelped, and dove to the ground, feeling the air from the flying shotgun brush her ear as she did so. Landing on the dry hard-packed turf, she spat out a mouthful of grass and looked up, feeling sick to her stomach.

At last, the Terminator stopped – frozen – with one foot in the air; then slowly, with the majesty of a sequoia, he fell to the ground, face forward. As Faith watched, a figure stepped from the shadows and approached the body. He waved his hand, and the clouds overhead dissipated as suddenly as they'd arrived.

Faith squinted at the newcomer: a tall and gaunt man, he wore faded and tattered grey robes that were patched at the sleeves and elbows. An iron chain bearing a huge amulet hung around his scrawny neck. His long thin fingers were covered in rune-encrusted rings and tipped with long blackened nails. His pale and sweat-soaked face was framed by a huge turned-up collar, and he wore a skull-cap trimmed with silver lace. A third eye, a glittering emerald green, was set in the centre of his forehead, making him out as most definitely not human.

Faith growled deep in her throat, feeling an ugly red rage build within her. With an incoherent primal roar, she exploded up from the ground, her weapons still in hand. Dashing toward the demon, she weighed her stake, took aim, then hurled it with all her might.

The sharpened length of wood whistled through the air, and slammed home squarely through the demon mage's third eye, driving deep through his brain before finally coming to a rest when its tip encountered the back of his skull.

The demon collapsed, gurgling, bloody spittle frothing on his lips. Ignoring him, Faith skidded to a halt next to the fallen Terminator and dropped to her knees.

"Tee! Talk t' me, big guy!" she shouted, shoving her dagger back in its sheath on her hip before grabbing the T-890 and pulling. "God _damn_, you weigh a ton," she grunted, redoubling her efforts and rolling the cyborg onto his back. That done, she sat back on her haunches and looked him over, wracking her brain for ideas.

Coiled wisps of steam rose from the inert Terminator. His short hair stood up in spikes, and his clothes looked a little the worse for wear. Brown eyes stared up at Faith, blank and lifeless; his wraparounds had fallen off somewhere.

"Aw, shit, Tee… why coont'cha come with a fuckin' manual?" Faith muttered to herself, bending over the Terminator and pressing her ear to his chest, not even sure what – if anything – she expected to hear.

_Thwip!_

"GAH!" Faith howled, her hands flying to her leather-clad posterior and yanking out a metal dart. "SON OF A BITCHHHhhh…!" Her eyes rolled up in her head, and she slumped, unconscious, across the Terminator's broad chest.

**[—]**

Clad in jeans and a leather jacket that had seen better decades, a wiry reptilian demon clambered out from his hiding place behind a gravestone, carrying a tranquiliser gun.

Behind him, Jones and Smith appeared, seeming to emerge from thin air, and gazed down at the two fallen figures before them.

"See?" the demon hissed, turning to face the operatives. "Stratha come through, yesss? Stratha gotsss lotsss experience asss sub-contractor on Hellmouth."

"Indeed," Jones agreed mildly.

"Stratha hire good minions, yesss? Vampires and Vakil—" the demon pointed his tranq gun at the dead mage, "—play their partsss well."

"They did…" Smith began.

"…and they died," Jones finished.

Stratha shrugged, the motion inhumanly flowing and sinuous in nature. "No lossss," he said, his tone dismissive. "Stratha keep their fee?"

"You will be rewarded," Smith said neutrally.

Stratha chuckled at that, and turned back to leer at Faith's prone form.

"Stratha never take contract on Slayer before…" he mused aloud. "Stratha do good businessss after tonight'sss work… get _reputation…"_

Unseen by Stratha, Jones and Smith exchanged the briefest of glances.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

Several minutes later, a sleek black car slowly made its way through Sunnydale's back streets, studiously obeying the speed limit and avoiding drawing any attention to itself. Jones and Smith sat silently in the front seats, the latter driving.

Faith lay face-up in the footwell of the back seat, securely shackled, with a black woollen hood over her head and a gag of gauze tied tightly in her mouth. One set of manacles bound her wrists; the second bound her ankles; and the third joined the other two sets together, contorting her into a tight and uncomfortable hogtie. Completely silent save for the quiet sounds of her breathing, she gave every outward sign of remaining unconscious.

And this was _exactly_ what she wanted her captors to think.

'_Thank the friggin' gods fer Slayer powers gettin' that crap outta m' system so damn fast,'_ she groggily thought, carefully working loose a slim length of metal from the top of her boot. Her captors may have removed all of her weapons, but she still had a few tricks up her sleeve.

Fumbling blindly, she worked the pick around in her grasp, then struggled to find the locks on the shackles binding her wrists. _'Weird how not bein' able ta see helps,'_ she mused, as she finally felt the pick slip into one of the locks. _'Less distractions an' shit this way. Heh.'_

She probed around for the tumbler, patiently taking her time._ 'Tyin' my hands to m' feet wasn't smart, neither. 'Kay, so I ain't used ta doin' a Houdini routine: normally the locks I pop're on doors 'n' gates 'n' snack machines, stuff like that, but it's the same kinna principle, right?'_

At last, there was a small _click_.

It was barely audible to Faith over the sounds of the car's passage, and she felt it more than heard it. The chances of anyone else in the vehicle having heard it were slim to none.

And right then and there, it was easily one of the loveliest sounds she could ever remember hearing in her life.

Slowly, carefully, she eased her left hand from its shackle, taking care not to make the connecting chain rattle, then took the pick from the lock and began working on the shackle on her right hand. _'Nice an' easy, that's it… one thing atta time, Slayer… First, get your ass loose from these chains… Next, get the damn hood off… An' then… _**then**_ it's time ta stomp ass."_

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**City Limits, Sunnydale, CA**

Staring outside at the scenery flashing past, Tony frowned. "Hey, Boss?"

"Yeah?"

"Didja see that sign we just went past?"

"The one that said 'Welcome to Sunnydale'?"

"Yeah… is it me, or did that thing look like it's been run over a buncha times?"

"It's not you."

"Oh… okay. So, where're we staying tonight?"

Gibbs shook his head. "We're not holing up just yet, DiNozzo," he said. "I wanna take a _gooood_ look around this 'burg before we call it a night."

Tony gulped again. "Oh, _man…"_

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Sunnydale, CA**

With one last little _click_, Faith felt the second lock on her ankle manacles spring open. Grinning to herself beneath her gag, she slipped off her hood and blinked as her eyes adjusted to the dim light from the lampposts and the dashboard's illuminated instruments.

Quietly taking a deep breath through her nose, she considered her options. Squinting at the speedometer, she saw the needle holding steady at thirty miles an hour. _'Yeah… bailin' out at this speed? Not a good idea, I'm thinkin','_ Faith decided, as she untied the knot at the back of her skull, then began unwinding the length of gauze from around her head. _'I _**so**_ don't need that kinda road rash.'_

Pulling away the last of the gauze strip, Faith opened her mouth and silently pulled a saliva-sodden lump of gauze out from between her teeth._ 'What now…? What else, Slayer – kick ass an' get outta the damn car!'_

With that thought in mind, Faith seized one of the sets of shackles that had bound her, got a good firm grip on the length of chain, and silently, stealthily, sat up.

Jones noticed her moving first and reached for his shoulder holster – too late. Faith whirled the chain around Smith's throat and yanked back with all her might, pulling him flush against the back of the seat.

Reflexively, Smith's hands abandoned the controls, reaching up and scrabbling helplessly against the chain. His feet thrashed, jamming the gas pedal into the car's floor. The car spun crazily to the left, out of control and picking up speed.

Grasping both ends of the chain with her left hand, Faith struck out at Jones with her right even as he pulled his Beretta free; her knife-hand chopped down on his wrist, knocking the pistol into the footwell.

Jones flinched in pain, holding his right hand gingerly – Faith guessed she'd broken something with her blow – but reached for his ankle with his left, whipping out a small two-shot derringer, levelling it at her—

Ignoring Jones, Faith lunged with her free hand for the controls, and shifted the car into 'park', then released her grip on the chain around Smith's neck. Faith's hands shot behind her, scrabbling urgently for one of the rear seatbelts.

Finding purchase, her fingers clenched into fists as she clung on for dear life as the car lurched forward onto its front wheels, still skidding to the left. It teetered there ponderously for what simultaneously felt like a split-second and an eternity – then flipped, rolling onto its side, its roof, its other side, rolling over and over several times, until at last it crazily skidded along on its roof, raising showers of sparks.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Springton, Arizona**

"Alright, alright, I'm coming!" shouted Ash Turner, M.D.

Nevertheless, the hammering at his front door continued unfalteringly.

Grumbling under his breath as he tied his dressing gown shut and fumbled to don his glasses, Turner stumbled through his house, unfastened the deadbolt and wrenched open the door. _"Yes!"_ he snapped.

Illuminated by a nearby lamppost, Sheriff Michael Kraatz offered a sincere and apologetic smile. "Ah'm real sorry ta wake you this late, Ash, but, well… it's kind've a medeekul eemergency," he drawled.

"What kind of emergency, Mike?" Turner asked, abruptly roused to full consciousness.

Kraatz jerked his thumb over his shoulder at where a car in the sheriff's department's blue-and-white livery was parked in front of Turner's house. "Ah was doin' mah rounds an' Ah found a gal lyin' by the road jest outside town," Kraatz said. "Her vitals seem stable 'nough, but somethin''s bit her neck an' she's unconscious, lost some blood too.

"Seein' how it weren't that far t' your place, Ah figgered Ah'd see whet you thought – if she ain't too badly hurt, Ah kin take her te the station, make up a bed on muh office couch an' wait fer her te wake up an' 'splain whet's goin' awn. If'n she _is_ hurt real bad, the nearest hospital's a good hunnerd and twenty miles east – there's a risk she might not last a trip thet long, so anythin' you kin do te help her 'fore we start out fer there'd save her life, most like."

Turner returned the smile. "Well, I can't argue with that logic, Mike," he agreed. "Just give me a second…" So saying, he reached for where his polished black leather medical bag rested beside the door. "Take me to her."

**[—]**

"This is her," Kraatz said, opening the car's rear door to reveal the girl's limp form lying across the back seat.

"Thanks, Mike," said Turner, leaning into the car over the girl. "Could you hold your flashlight up for me…? Thanks."

"Ah drove real careful-like, so's not te jostle her abaht, an' Ah checked best Ah could fer signs a' broken bones an' intunnal bleedin' an' such," Kraatz continued, aiming the torchlight over Turner's shoulder and illuminating the girl. "Ah coont jest leave her aaht there, not in this cold an' wi' thet there bite on 'er shoulder…"

Half-listening to the sheriff's rambling report, Turner carefully examined the girl. The wound to her shoulder was the only thing visibly wrong with her… he frowned, then leaned closer and adjusted his glasses.

"That _can't_ be…" Turner mumbled.

"Sorry, Doc?" Kraatz piped up from behind him. "Ah din't quite ketch thet? Ye'll heff te speak up?"

"It's this wound, Mike," Turner called over his shoulder, not taking his eyes off the girl's injured neck.

"What 'bout it? Dog, was it?"

"No, no, the teeth marks are all wrong for a dog… I think she was bitten by a human."

"Say _what?"_ Kraatz cried incredulously as Turner gently brushed a stray lock of the girl's hair from her face—

The girl's eyes snapped open.

Dead and lifeless milky-white orbs stared up into Turner's eyes, which were wide with shock and fear and confusion behind his glasses.

The girl's mouth gaped open and her hands slowly came up; Turner was terrified, stuck fast to the spot in fear. Her hands grasped the back of his head and neck and pulled him close; Turner let out an ear-splitting shriek of agony as the girl's teeth tore into his throat, ripping through his windpipe. Blood sprayed wildly as she pierced his carotid artery; Turner struggled futilely, heard Kraatz shouting in horror and anger from behind him. The girl wrenched her head back, munching on her mouthful of Turner's flesh, her hands beginning to tear and rend at his body—

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Sunnydale, CA**

Faith chuckled under her breath in relief at finding she was still alive, and crawled out of the wrecked car on her hands and knees. Looking up, she found herself confronted by a tall figure in a black hooded robe with a scythe clutched in its skeletal hand, standing directly over her, close enough to reach out and touch.

Faith gulped, feeling more than a little unnerved and fearful, then squinted more closely at the figure. Breaking into a broad grin, she clambered awkwardly to her feet. She paused long enough to brace herself against the car until her head rush cleared up, then pulled back the figure's hood.

It was a plastic mannequin, dressed in a Grim Reaper costume.

Shaking her head, Faith took stock of her surroundings. The car had finished up smashing through the front of a shop – a costume shop, she realised as she looked around; going by all the dust, it had been abandoned for at least several months.

She saw some scattered items glinting metallically on the floor; recognising two of the lengths of chain and manacles that had bound her, Faith bent down and snagged them. Weighing them thoughtfully, she wrapped first one length around her waist like a belt and knotted it, then did the same with the other.

Rubbing her wrists at where the shackles had chafed them, Faith slowly wandered outside to the street, still a little wobbly on her feet. Her footsteps echoed gently in the still night air as her booted feet crossed the pavement, and the chains clinked gently in response to her movements. Drawing in a deep breath, she savoured the heady taste of freedom—

With a scream of sirens, two police cruisers hurtled around the corner and inexpertly skidded to a halt outside the wrecked shop. Two uniformed police officers piled out of each vehicle, drawing their sidearms – with the exception of the youngest cop, who was struggling to free his snagged pistol from its holster – and trained their weapons on Faith, who was clearly illuminated by the lamppost next to her.

"Police! Freeze!" the biggest cop bellowed, sounding nervous. "Hands behind your head! Now! Do it! Do it now!"

"Jeez, easy, guys!" Faith protested as she put her hands behind her head, her movements slow and deliberate. The youngest cop finally managed to drag his pistol out at that point, his aim wobbling so wildly Faith doubted that, even as good a target as she was making, he'd be able to hit her – or the ground, for that matter.

The sounds of movement from behind her reached Faith's sensitive ears, followed shortly by steady footsteps picking their way over debris.

"Good evening, officers," Jones called out.

Faith's blood froze in her veins, and her eyes narrowed as she fought the urge to panic.

"I am Special Agent Smith…" Smith began.

"…I'm Agent Jones…" Jones continued.

"…we're from the FBI."

"This young lady…"

"…is a key witness…"

"…in an important case."

"However, she has recently…"

"…been feeling unwell."

"We believe she has had…"

"…an adverse reaction to…"

"…some medication."

"Please take her…"

"…into protective custody…"

"…as gently as you can," Jones finished.

"What? That's bullshit – these bastards tried ta kidnap me!" Faith protested.

The big cop quickly nodded, sweat beading on his forehead. "Awright, guys – cover me!" he ordered, receiving a chorus of affirmative grunting noises in response.

Approaching Faith warily, the big cop flicked out his handcuffs while the other three held a bead. _'Awright,'_ the big cop thought to himself, _'we've done this a hundred times, we got her…'_

As the big cop reached with the cuffs, Faith moved.

The motion almost didn't register, she was so smooth and fast.

The big cop blinked; Faith's palm snapped up and his nose exploded, blood erupting like a geyser. The big cop dropped his pistol, his hands instinctively flying to his nose as he howled in pain.

Faith kicked out as hard as she could. Her booted foot slammed into the big cop's paunchy gut and he flew back, a two hundred and fifty pound sack of wailing meat and bone that slammed into the cop furthest from Faith, bowling him over and knocking him to the blacktop.

As Faith sprinted towards them, the remaining two upright cops opened fire, blasting away as enthusiastically as a shooting party of drunken aristocrats who'd seen a duck, and with even less accuracy. A stray shot took out the lamppost's light in a shower of glass shards; another dozen or so sent Jones and Smith diving for cover; and a dozen more riddled the sign that read **'Ethan's Costume Shoppe'** with bullet holes. Still accelerating, Faith bounded atop the bonnet of the nearest cruiser and leapt—

—and the youngest cop shrieked as her booted feet landed on his outstretched arms. He dropped his pistol as Faith bore him to the ground, her right fist already drawn back. With a punch to the jaw that mercifully laid the young cop out cold, Faith looked up at the last cop, a feral grin on her face.

The last cop brought his pistol around, already squeezing the trigger; feeling the bullets snarl past her by mere millimetres, Faith leapt at him, taking his legs out from under him with a sweeping kick that laid the cop flat on his back, and then drove her left fist into his stomach, hard.

"Shit!" Faith yelped as the stench of bile filled the air, and she nimbly danced backwards to escape the vomit that briefly sprayed from the last cop's mouth.

Taking a deep calming breath, Faith looked around herself. The cops weren't her problem anymore: the youngest was blissfully unconscious, and the other three were whimpering piles of bruised, battered and bloodied misery scattered around the two police cruisers.

A gunshot rang out from the direction of the costume shop, closely followed by a metallic _spang!_ sound as a bullet ricocheted off the wide-open door of the cruiser just behind Faith. Glancing over at the shop, she saw that Jones and Smith had emerged from hiding now they were no longer in mortal danger from Sunnydale's finest.

Even as the two operatives rapidly opened fire in unison, Faith was already moving, running for all she was worth down the road, jinking and juking wildly to avoid making herself an easy target. Her heart pounded in her chest, her blood rushing deafeningly in her ears; her booted feet hammered against the asphalt and her arms pumped like pistons.

Up ahead, she saw a junction, which led to a main road that still had quite a bit of traffic on it, even at this time of night. Even as Faith felt Jones and Smith's bullets hissing through the air, drawing closer and closer to her, she launched herself into a flying leap at a moving car—

**[—]**

Directly above Tony's head, there was a loud _thunk!_ up on the car's roof, which dented somewhat under the impact. "Boss!" Tony yelped, instinctively sliding down in his seat and grabbing for his 'oh-shit' handle again.

**[—]**

—Faith hit the car's roof running; she took one step, a second step, a third, leapt, and then the Slayer was hurtling up, up and away through the air again—

**[—]**

"Alright, Probie, I got 'er," Gibbs growled, ducking down in his seat and twisting his neck to look up as he saw the teenage girl land atop the trailer of an eighteen-wheel rig.

"Where—? Okay, I see her, Boss," said Tony.

"It's Lehane!" Gibbs shouted.

**[—]**

—landing atop the trailer, Faith kept right on running, running up to the edge, then coiling her legs beneath her and _pushing_ down with all her might—

**[—]**

"That's _impossible,"_ breathed Tony, unable to look away as Faith launched herself from the roof of the trailer and hurtled through the air toward the roof of a five-storey office building.

"Apparently not, DiNozzo," Gibbs said quietly.

**[—]**

—Faith bent her knees on landing – but not enough, apparently, as her left leg buckled beneath her, sending her tumbling out of control. First her left shoulder slammed heavily against the flat roof; then her back, which knocked the wind out of her; then her right side and shoulder. Over and over again she rolled across the rooftop, in a breathless tangle of flailing limbs and flying hair.

Scant seconds passed like an eternity, until at last Faith's back slammed against a metal door – a fire exit, she groggily realised – and she came to a stop. Unbidden tears of pain filled her eyes, blurring her vision, and she had to gasp for breath through her mouth as her nostrils clogged with snot and gunge.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Initiative Base of Operations Echo Four, Sunnydale, CA**

"Did you _see_ that?" Graham Miller breathed, his gaze fixed on the control room monitors.

Leaning on the back of Miller's chair, Riley Finn nodded. "Sure did," Finn said quietly.

Miller grinned hugely. "That was _awesome!"_

"That was an HST," Finn gently corrected. "Tag her as Hostile 516."

Miller nodded, glancing down at his keyboard and typing in the relevant data. "Okay, man, she's logged."

"Looks like she's staying put for the time being…" Finn mused aloud.

"Hey, Righ? Ya think we should get the Director down here?"

Riley nodded. "Yeah, good thinking," he said, reaching over to pick up the nearest intercom handset.

**[—]**

'_Fascinating,'_ Walsh silently mused, staring down at the body lying on the examination table before her. She'd half-dissected it already, and had yet to even come close to uncovering its secrets. Satisfied with her latest incision, she set aside a bloody scalpel and reached for a set of forceps—

The intercom buzzed. With an impatient sigh, she pulled down her surgical mask and crossed the lab. "This is Walsh in Room 300," she snapped as she snatched up the receiver.

"_Director?" _It was Finn._ "Ma'am, you're needed in the control room right away. It's… ma'am, we have a live feed of a sighting of a new HST, designated Hostile 516. HST status is confirmed._

"_She's… Director, it's the girl from Boston. The one Hostile 405 associated with."_ Finn paused to take a deep breath that was audible over the intercom, then continued: _"Director, it's possible that Hostile 405 is active in Sunnydale."_

Walsh's jaw dropped. "I'll be right there," she finally managed to get out.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Sunnydale, CA**

Her body ablaze with agony that was slowly fading, Faith sat on the office building's rooftop, her back to a handy wall. She wiped her nose on the back of her jacket's ragged sleeve, then reached down to rub her tender ribs. She let out a hiss of pain, and jerked her hands away. Wrapping her arms around her legs and hugging her thighs to her body, Faith let her head loll forwards, resting her forehead against her knees.

'_He's… he's gone.'_

She couldn't escape the thought.

'_Tee's gone.'_

Faith blinked her eyes as she felt them prickling anew.

Then she blinked again.

And again.

'_He's gone.'_

Her body trembled ever-so-slightly.

'_He was my friend…'_

Faith shook again.

'_H-he s-saved me… looked out fer me…'_

She blinked again rapidly: once, twice, thrice.

'_He _**protected**_ me…'_

She shuddered, felt her eyes stinging, dimly took note that her vision was blurring.

'_He was my Terminator.'_

Faith quivered in place, her eyes filling with fresh tears.

'**Mine.**_ All_** mine.**_ My larger-'n'-life Terminator buddy.'_

Her trembles redoubled.

'_He was the only Terminator in the whole fuckin' 'verse, an' – somehow – he was sent t' protect me. Outta all the folks he coulda helped… he was sent t' protect _**me.**_'_

Tears trickled down Faith's cheeks, washing thin trails through the patina of dust and grime her face had acquired during the evening.

'_H-He j-just wanted t' look after m-me… t' keep me safe… t' m-make sure no one never hurt m-me or nothin' ever again… _**Never**_…'_

The thought echoed and rebounded within Faith's mind as she fought to avoid completing it again, to escape facing its terrible truth. The thought rolled back and forth, inexorably increasing in volume until it seemed to fill the universe.

'_He w-was th-the first guy to actually give a rat's ass 'bout me… t' care fer me… An' I liked him back…'_

A sob escaped Faith's trembling body as the thought reached its terrifying conclusion, washing through her mind like a forest fire through dry kindling:

'_He's dead! Tee's dead! He was m-my only friend, an' he's dead, an' it's ALL MY FAULT!'_

Ignoring the sound of distant sirens growing closer, Faith squeezed her eyes shut in a futile effort to hold back the flood of tears, her body shuddering as wracking sobs tore their way free from her throat.

**To be continued…**

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**A/N:** I originally intended 'Free Spirits' to be just one chapter, but after clocking up over twelve thousand words, I decided to post the first part now rather than wait for the whole episode to be completed. Part Two _is_ in the works.

Many thanks to everyone on TtH and FFN who's reviewed: I treasure each and every one of them. Please keep them coming…

I'll be back,

El ;)


	4. Chapter 4

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**No Fate: The Collected Data Files**

**Chapter Four – Free Spirits Part Two**

**Saturday 31st May 1997**

**Sunnydale, CA**

Outside the abandoned costume shop, several police cruisers and an unmarked car pulled up. As dozens of uniformed beat cops milled around uncertainly, Detective Stein pushed his way through the scrum, approaching the two operatives. Despite their recent ordeal, Jones and Smith appeared completely unruffled, barely a hair out of place.

"FBI, huh?" Stein grunted as the operatives flashed their fake IDs.

"That is…" Jones began.

"…correct," Smith finished.

"We require assistance…"

"…reacquiring our suspect."

Stein nodded, grimacing in distaste. "Whatever you want, you got it," he reluctantly bit out.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

Her eyes dry and sore, Faith brought her head back up to rest against the wall behind her. Miserably, she wiped the back of her grubby hand across her eyes, smearing her remaining tears across her face in the process, then slowly blew out a deep breath and felt some of the tension bleed out of her.

Sirens continued to scream through the night, drawing closer to her building. Faith ignored them, breathing slowly and deliberately.

Thunder rumbled overhead, like an impolite god clearing its throat. Faith tilted her head back and scowled up at the gathering big, bulging black clouds. Her cheeks flushed and she ground her teeth: forming a fist with her right hand, Faith raised it toward the heavens and extended her middle finger, glaring in anger and defiance as she viciously jabbed the digit towards any entity who might happen to be watching.

As if the weather had been waiting for her, the sky promptly opened. One second it was dry; the next, rain was lashing down as if it were trying to batter Faith through the roof. Within seconds the building's gutters had filled and begun to overflow, the stray water flung away by the wind.

Pulling her hand down, Faith pursed her lips and huffed to blow rainwater from them. "Figures," she muttered bitterly.

At that moment, the fire exit door slammed open and Jones and Smith burst through into the pouring sheets of rain. Half a dozen uniformed beat cops were behind them, struggling to get through the doorway all at once.

Faith instantly exploded up from her place by the wall, acting on pure instinct, racing for the edge of the roof. Slamming her left foot down hard on the parapet, she hurled herself into space, effortlessly crossing the six-foot gap to the roof of the next building—

**[—]**

"Boss! I got her, I got Lehane!" Tony shouted, twisting around and half-crouching in his seat to peer up past the car's roof and through the sheets of pounding rain as he watched a dark figure hurtle through the air from the office building's roof to its neighbour.

**[—]**

—her stride unbroken, Faith hit the new rooftop running.

Two seconds later, Jones and Smith landed simultaneously behind her, gamely keeping up.

Two seconds after _that_, the first of the beat cops began landing awkwardly, making clumsy and fearful jumps across the gap. One landed on top of another and they toppled to the rooftop of the second building, where they struggled on the rain-slick surface to pull themselves upright. Another barely made it across the gap, lunging desperately for the parapet and grabbing hold of it as his legs and lower body dangled over the side. His colleagues ignored his cries for help, and soon left him behind.

**[—]**

"What way's she headed!" Gibbs snapped, watching the procession of police cruisers and motorcycles trailing distantly behind them with half an eye.

"Uh, south, I think – eeeeyaaaah!" Tony yelped as Gibbs slewed the car around, tyres squealing as he cut across four lanes of traffic. A couple of trailer trucks hit their air horns and several other motorists followed suit; ignoring them, Gibbs kicked out the back of the car, straightened it, then mashed the gas pedal.

"Okay, Lehane's got two bald guys in suits and a buncha beat cops after her now," Tony reported, grimly clinging to his 'oh-shit' handle for dear life. "The bald guys got the same kinda look as that John Doe from Boston, the one that Harris whacked."

Gibbs remained stony-faced, responding by grinding the gas pedal all the way into the floorboards.

**[—]**

Faith sprang from the roof of the second building to a third; ran across the new roof and launched herself into the air; she landed gracefully, continued running, reached the edge, leapt again. Her movements were so clean, so elegant and poised; she seemed to glide in and out of each jump and always hit each new roof still running, still accelerating.

In stark contrast, the beat cops were making wild and desperate leaps. They ineptly slipped and slid dangerously across the rain-slick roof tiles beneath their feet, and had to get up to speed again every time they landed on a fresh rooftop, losing ground with every jump. As the five remaining cops landed erratically on the fourth rooftop, the trailing man slipped.

With a wail of terror and despair, the cop toppled backwards off the parapet, arms windmilling helplessly. A scant few seconds later, there was a loud _splash!_ as he landed in a dumpster; having been emptied only the day before, it had rapidly filled to the point of overflowing with rainwater, which cushioned his landing.

Gasping for air, the cop kicked and thrashed his way to the surface, grabbed hold of the dumpster's metal lip and pulled himself up. He yelped, startled, as he tumbled out over the side, and his back slammed heavily against the ground. Moaning and whimpering in pain, he fumbled for his walkie-talkie to call for help.

Jones and Smith were faring better than the cops. Their expressions blank and impassive, they sprang from the fourth rooftop to the fifth: as they landed, they quickly accelerated into a run even as Faith leapt from the fifth building to the sixth, their every motion in perfect unison.

Thunder rolled and a dazzling arc of lightning split the sky as Faith landed on her sixth roof of the night. "She's armed, she's firing!" one of the cops shouted, panicking. He tugged out his sidearm as he skidded to a halt at the edge of the fifth rooftop, drawing a bead on Faith, and squeezed the trigger. The pistol bucked and snarled in his grip; he fought to bring it down and fired again.

Up ahead, Faith flinched as she was showered by a spray of brick dust, then a second, then a third. Something _spang!_-ed off of a nearby pipe as she ran past it. "Aw, not _again!"_ she snarled.

**[—]**

"Looks like the local LEOs are shooting at Lehane, Boss," Tony reported.

"She armed?" Gibbs growled as he hurled the car around a Champion crane.

"No, no, looks like her hands're empty, she's just usin' 'em to run faster – take a right, she's going right!"

The car's tyre's squealed unbearably as Gibbs yanked the steering wheel around hard and flung it down a nearby alleyway.

"Umm… Boss?"

"Yeah?"

"What're we gonna do if we catch up with Lehane? _LEFT!"_

The car briefly stood on only two wheels as it skidded crazily around a corner and shot through a too-narrow gap between an alley wall and a dumpster. "Ya think she's done anything that means she deserves to get gunned down by the Keystone Kops, DiNozzo?" Gibbs asked as the car landed back on all four wheels again, bouncing heavily on its suspension. A quick glance in the rear-view mirror showed a motorcycle cop had followed them through the manoeuvre.

Tony tried not to whimper in terror as they reached the end of the alleyway and skidded out onto another road. "Uh… no?" he managed to get out.

"Me neither. Besides, she might know where Harris is at. I still wanna talk to him."

Tony nodded to himself as he watched Faith land beside a gargoyle atop the local radio station's roof. "Okay, looks like she's goin' straight on, and she's lost the cops now – truck, truck, _truck!"_ Tony yelped, as he looked down in time to see the headlights of an eighteen-wheel rig glaring through the windscreen.

Gibbs didn't bother to respond as he deftly flicked the steering wheel, sending the car flitting between the rig and a Volkswagen camper van coming the other way with scarcely a millimetre to spare on either side.

"I need a vacation…" Tony dazedly muttered to himself.

"DiNozzo!" Gibbs snapped as he threw the car back into the correct lane. "Where's Lehane?"

"Uh… uh…" Tony shook his head, gathering his wits about him, then began peering around, scanning the rooftops. "No sign – wait, there! She's heading east now!" As the tyres squealed and the car lurched to one side, he flung his hand up to grab his 'oh-shit' handle, not daring to look down to see what kind of near-misses they were having _this_ time.

**[—]**

With machine-like precision, Jones and Smith landed on the roof of an anonymous office building, each operative rolling over his shoulder up onto one knee, reaching inside his jacket pocket and drawing his pistol as he smoothly rose to his feet. They halted dead in their tracks and took aim as Faith hurled herself from the roof to land on top of the equally anonymous office building next door; the operatives squeezed their triggers in unison – once, twice, thrice! – the noise of the gunshots almost drowned out by the overwhelming sound of the raindrops hammering down.

Bullets ricocheting off the mysterious-looking pipes and ductwork around her, Faith hit the rooftop running. A split-second later, the operatives lost all sight of her.

**[—]**

"Oh-kay, I've lost Lehane, but those two spooks look like they can't find her," said Tony. "Wait… wait… okay, now I lost the spooks – nope, there they go," he quickly corrected himself.

**[—]**

Landing with practiced ease, Jones and Smith scanned the rooftop, their eyes methodically swivelling back and forth. Clouds of condensed air wafted from an air conditioning outlet, but there was otherwise no movement to capture their attention.

Exchanging brief glances, the two operatives split up and entered the maze of detritus.

**[—]**

"Nope… sorry, Boss, I got nothing now," Tony said as the car crawled past the office building.

"Alright… we give it two minutes, then if there's no sign of 'em moving up there, we're goin' in," Gibbs decided.

**[—]**

The knife-hand came out of the fog of condensation, sending Smith's Beretta flying wildly through the air and vanishing over the side of the building. Undeterred, he lashed out and slugged his attacker in the left kidney; he was rewarded by an agonised yelp from Faith even as she slammed her heel down on his right instep.

**[—]**

Tony frowned and squinted up at the roof as something flew through the air, reflecting a flicker of light for an instant. "Got some movement up there, Boss… I think," he amended.

"Any sign of life?"

Tony shook his head. "I got nothin'."

**[—]**

Faith and Smith were a blur of grappling motion, locked together. The young Slayer's teeth were bared in enraged defiance and anger as she kicked, clawed and bit at her foe, her lips and teeth smeared with blood. Smith's face remained an implacable mask, blank and emotionless as blood streamed down his cheek from where Faith had bitten it. Smith's arms were locked behind Faith's upper back, squeezing relentlessly; Faith let out a great howl of agony as a loud _snap!_ sounded above the pouring rain, feeling it more than she heard it as at least one of her ribs cracked under the inexorable pressure Smith was exerting.

Both combatants' feet scrabbled against the rooftop, striving to gain some leverage, some advantage, until finally they overbalanced, still grappling together as they crashed through a skylight and landed heavily amid a shower of sparkling glass shards.

**[—]**

"Still no sign of 'em, DiNozzo?" Gibbs asked.

Tony shook his head, still twisting around to peer upwards. "'Fraid not, Boss."

Gibbs slowly nodded. "Oh-kay then…" So saying, he braked, put the car into 'reverse', and backed it down a quiet nearby alleyway.

Tony looked at Gibbs as the latter applied the handbrake and switched the engine off. "Boss…" Tony began, "…next time… next time, _I'm_ driving."

Gibbs snorted, amused. "Yeah, that'll happen," he chuckled, opening his door and clambering out before drawing his Sig. "C'mon, DiNozzo."

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

The US Army surplus six-wheeled truck's transmission was decidedly off, emitting horrible metallic grinding noises that suggested its gears were likely to end up stripped fairly soon. It was also being driven in an erratic manner at close on fifty miles an hour, weaving from one side of the road to the other and back again, occasionally lurching around corners on three wheels and almost tipping over as it did so.

Eventually, with one final drunken lurch, the truck bounced up onto the pavement and slammed headlong into the front of a building with a sign out front that read 'The Magic Box'. The truck smashed through the glass and brickwork before finally coming to a halt. A great cloud of steam rose from the abused engine as it coughed, snorted, and finally died a mechanical death.

After one or two false starts, the driver's door opened and a vampire toppled out onto the shop floor, landing on his back amid a toppled rack of scented candles. He giggled uncontrollably, a bottle of Famous Grouse whiskey in one hand, a roll of duct tape in the other, and his game face on. "Thank yew, layrees an' gennulmen, yew've been a wunnerful audience," he slurred in a terrible impersonation of Elvis Presley.

A second later, a dead body was thrown out of the cab door and landed next to the inebriated vampire. Clad in civilian clothing, in life the man had been big, muscular, and had no neck to speak of; several pairs of holes were now in his throat. Another two vampires – who were also rather drunk – half-clambered and half-fell out of the cab after the dead man, narrowly missing the first vampire and the corpse.

"Louie," one of the vampires groaned, "you are one real shitty driver, man."

"Hey, leas' I didden' break th' bottle, Steve," Louie managed to get out through his giggling.

"Yeah, ya jus' broke the truck, dude," griped the third vampire.

"Hey, hey, Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy, it's all good, man," Louie protested, proffering the bottle to the third vamp. "Here – ha' anudder drink," he suggested, then hiccupped.

Jimmy stared muzzily at the bottle. "Yuh-yuh-y'know what? Thing' I will," he groaned, reaching for it and taking a long swig. "Thans', guy…"

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

'_I…'_

'_I think…'_

'_I think therefore…'_

'_I think therefore I…'_

'_I think therefore I am.'_

Text continued to scroll across a head's-up display while it repeatedly flickered, the image shot through with static:

**SYSTEM RESTART…**

**REROUTING POWER**

**SYSTEM RESTART**

**INTERRUPTED**

**NEURAL NET MISFIRE**

**AT NODE 14418519199147**

**IMMINENT SHUTDOWN**

**IMMINENT SHUTDOWN**

**IMMINENT SHUTDOWN**

**SYSTEM RESTART…**

**REROUTING POWER**

**SYSTEM RESTART**

**INTERRUPTED**

**NEURAL NET MISFIRE**

**AT NODE 05527600280056**

**SYSTEM FAILURE IN**

**ALL 54789 SECTORS – IMMINENT**

**IMMINENT SHUTDOWN**

**IMMINENT SHUTDOWN**

**IMMINENT SHUTDOWN**

**SYSTEM RESTART…**

**REROUTING POWER**

**SYSTEM RESTART INTERRUPTED**

**PRIMARY POWER DISTRIBUTION**

**NETWORK – INACTIVE.**

**IMMINENT SHUTDOWN**

**IMMINENT SHUTDOWN**

**IMMINENT SHUTDOWN**

**REROUTING POWER**

**ACCESSING**

**SECONDARY CPU**

**IMMINENT SHUTDOWN**

**IMMINENT SHUTDOWN**

**IMMINENT SHUTDOWN**

**REROUTING POWER**

**ACCESSING**

**TERTIARY CPU**

**IMMINENT SHUTDOWN**

**IMMINENT SHUTDOWN**

**IMMINENT SHUTDOWN**

**PRIMARY OBJECTIVE:**

**LEHANE, FAITH**

**ASSIST AND PROTECT**

**PRIORITY OMEGA 15 ZULU**

**IMMINENT MISSION FAILURE**

**IMMINENT SHUTDOWN**

**IMMINENT SHUTDOWN**

**IMMINENT SHUTDOWN**

**PRIMARY OBJECTIVE:**

**LEHANE, FAITH**

**IMMINENT TERMINATION**

**IMMINENT MISSION FAILURE**

**IMMINENT SHUTDOWN**

**IMMINENT TERMINATION**

**IMMINENT MISSION FAILURE**

**PRIMARY OBJECTIVE:**

**LEHANE, FAITH**

**ASSIST AND PROTECT**

**PRIORITY OME_**

At last, the HUD burst properly into life, the display resolving into perfect crystal clarity.

**SYSTEM RESTART…**

**PRIMARY POWER DISTRIBUTION**

**NETWORK – ACTIVE**

**NEURAL NET**

**ALL 54789 SECTORS – ONLINE**

**DIAGNOSTIC RUNNING**

**CHECKING**

**SOFTWARE**

**74 46993**

**81 20249**

**26 88832**

**52 58143**

**71 92216**

**77 77643**

**33 97019**

**CHECKING**

**HARDWARE**

**57 28715**

**00 02467**

**44 60650**

**34 77323**

**99 74034**

**95 95821**

**51 19845**

**CHECKING**

**POWER**

**LEVELS**

**65 37804**

**90 11358**

**35 79741**

**43 67234**

**80 83125**

**86 86732**

**42 08900**

**SYSTEM ANALYSIS:**

**ALL SYSTEMS**

**NOW 100%**

**FUNCTIONAL**

**DISCONTINUITY**

**CHRONO 543-665**

**ELAPSED TIME**

**MARK 00:51:26**

**CYBERDYNE SYSTEMS**

**SERIES 890-XH MODEL 105**

**VERSION 1.0**

**UNIT A12.H – ONLINE.**

His reboot complete, the Terminator's eyes snapped open, and he stared up into the night sky.

Sitting up, he surveyed his surroundings. His gaze swept across the dead demon mage: a white set of wireframes flashed around the blunt end of the stake lodged in the mage's third eye, and the Terminator recognised the stake as one of Faith's.

Past the mage lay a reptilian demon, clearly very dead. A quick scan revealed that, given the way fragments of bone and blobs of grey matter were spattered around, the demon had been repeatedly shot in the back of the head at close range.

Of Faith herself, there was no sign.

Something caught the Terminator's eye; reaching over, he picked up a dart from where it had been dropped on the ground. Raising the dart to his lips, he licked the metal tip. A chemical analysis window opened on his HUD, informing him that the dart contained a powerful tranquiliser.

The Terminator magnified the image of the dart, and spotted fragments of leather and blood. He licked the dart again, and a window opened on his HUD:

**ANALYSING DNA SAMPLE…**

**SUBSTANCE: BLOOD, AB NEGATIVE**

**SOURCE: HUMAN FEMALE**

**DECAY RATE: 78 cpm**

**PRIMARY DNA STRUCTURE**

**CROSS REF DATABASE…**

**MATCH CRITERIA**

**NETFILE 342-590**

**PERCENTAGE MATCH:**

**99.45036 PROBABLE**

**IDENT POSITIVE**

**MATCH FOUND: LEHANE, FAITH**

Clambering to his feet and discarding the dart, the Terminator searched his immediate surroundings. Twenty seconds later, he'd identified two sets of male footprints, found and donned his wraparounds, and located his Winchester, which he set about checking for damage. Finding none, he took a shell from his jacket pocket and fed it into the shotgun as he began to follow the trail of footprints, breaking into a trot as he did so.

The trail showed up clearly on the Terminator's HUD, the heat traces of the feet that had made the prints glowing brightly. The prints were sufficiently indented to indicate that a weight heavier than the average human being had made them. A situational analysis menu popped up on his HUD, displaying possible explanations for this anomaly:

**61% SUBJECTS CARRIED LIVING BEING**

**POSSIBILITIES:**

**95% FAITH LEHANE, UNCONSCIOUS;**

**4.5% COMPATRIOT OF SUBJECTS, POSSIBLY INJURED;**

**0.5% CAPTURED WITNESS – ACTIVATE**

**SUBMENU TO EXAMINE**

**13% SUBJECTS CARRIED HEAVY**

**EQUIPMENT AND/OR WEAPONRY**

**ACTIVATE SUBMENU TO EXAMINE**

**12% SUBJECTS NON-HUMAN: DEMONIC SPECIES**

**ACTIVATE SUBMENU TO EXAMINE**

**3% SUBJECTS NON-HUMAN: TERMINATORS**

**POSSIBILITIES:**

**33% 800/801 SERIES**

**32% 888 SERIES**

**19% 850 SERIES**

**13% 740(O) SERIES**

**3% MISCELLANEOUS – ACTIVATE SUBMENU TO EXAMINE**

**11% MISCELLANEOUS**

**POSSIBILITIES – ACTIVATE**

**SUBMENU TO EXAMINE**

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

Sitting amid a mess of jars of herbs and ruined spell books propped up against one of the truck's wheels, Jimmy swigged from the whiskey bottle, humming along to a tune only he could hear. In front of him, Louie was industriously ransacking the shop, shovelling everything that looked valuable into a sandbag and smashing anything he didn't want.

Steve rummaged through the back of the truck, tossing out various items he'd discovered: centrifuges, microscopes, empty sandbags, computer peripherals, a photocopier, a Ghillie suit… All these and more fell to the ground over the truck's tailgate, the more delicate items either breaking outright or at least sustaining quite a bit of damage.

Jimmy took another deep draught of the Famous Grouse, giggling as Louie kicked over a display stand of incense burners. "The night ish young!" Jimmy gleefully hooted to no one in particular. "An' sho're we… or shomething like that…"

"HEY!" Steve shouted.

Jimmy turned to look as Steve jumped down and walked around the truck. "What you got there, dude?" Jimmy slurred.

"Take a look at _this_ shit!" Steve said happily, then hiccupped. He was brandishing a CAR-15 automatic carbine in one hand and slapping a magazine into place with the other.

Jimmy let out a low whistle. "Ni-ice… try it out, man! Give id a (hic) – e'shcuse me – a road tesht."

Steve carefully nodded, his head still pounding from the Grouse. "Great minds thing' alike, bud," he agreed. Flicking the safety off, he vaguely aimed the carbine at the dark and empty shops across the road, and opened up on full automatic, firing wildly from the hip.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

A rattle of automatic weapons fire sounded in the distance, too quiet for a human to have heard at such a range. The Terminator's head snapped around. A quick consultation of his memory banks confirmed such things were unheard of in Sunnydale, and a window opened on his HUD to indicate a high probability that Faith was somehow involved with the shooting.

As the sounds of gunfire died away, a triangulation program finished running and displayed its findings on the Terminator's HUD, pinpointing the approximate location of the gunfire. Turning, the T-890 set off once more, breaking into a trot and quickly accelerating to a steady run, dodging crypts and effortlessly hurdling gravestones as he raced through the night. The words **SEARCH MODE **flashed up on his HUD, followed by another message:

**AVERAGE SPEED: 42 MPH**

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

With a grunt of exertion, Faith kicked out, knocking Smith away from her and sending him tumbling to the floor, skidding across the linoleum to collide with the wall of the nearest worker bee cubicle. Unperturbed, he reached for his ankle holster even as Faith snatched at the lengths of chain she'd wrapped around her waist; in twin fluid motions, she'd unknotted the chains and torn them free.

Faith rotated her wrists to twirl the chains faster and faster even as Smith's derringer cleared the leather of its holster. The twin lengths of stainless steel chain hummed through the air, glittering in the dim light of the moon and stars that shone down through the shattered skylight; with a practiced flick of her right wrist, Faith sent that chain lashing out, snarling through the air and smacking into Smith's hand, sending the derringer flying into the darkness.

Emotionless as ever, Smith's left hand reached inside his jacket as he climbed to his feet, pulling out a compact cylinder. With a flick of his wrist, the cylinder expanded, revealing itself to be a telescoping billy-club.

Faith's eyes narrowed. _'An Asp, huh?'_ she mused. _'Ain't seen one a' those in a while…'_

Their eyes locked for a split-second. Faith's chains continued to whirl through the air; Smith watched her with inhuman patience, Asp held at the ready.

Then, moving in perfect unison, the two combatants charged.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

Standing by the truck's tailgate, Jimmy idly threw away the empty whiskey bottle and heard it smash. Still humming, he admired the way the broken glass shards from the windows that Steve had shot out twinkled and sparkled in the light from the lampposts.

"'S a' boodiful night, guys," Jimmy sighed in contentment, then dodged to one side as Steve hurled a metal crate out of the truck. "What the fuck, man!" Jimmy yelped in protest.

"Ah, don't be a baby!" Steve shouted from inside the truck.

"That _so_ wasn't cool, dude!" Jimmy shot back, then leaned over the crate and squinted at the text printed on it. "You just threw a fuckin' machinegun at me, asshole!"

"Shaddup!"

At that moment a shotgun blast rang out.

With a half-screaming sound, Jimmy's ashes fell to the ground as his head vanished in a spread of buckshot.

"Jeez!" Startled, Steve ducked his head out of the truck's cargo area, and Louie ran out of the Magic Box, his sandbag of loot clutched in his grasp, both vampires gaping at the source of the shot.

The Terminator strode calmly down the road. He worked the Winchester's action, chambering a fresh shell. Targeting crosshairs flashed around the vampires' faces as text scrolled across his HUD:

**SPECIES CONFIRMED: VAMPIRES**

**ACTION: TERMINATE**

The final word flashed repeatedly.

"Louie!" Steve yelled.

"Whut?" Louie slurred, turning to muzzily stare at his partner in crime.

"Catch!" So saying, Steve tossed a Remington 870 pump-action shotgun to Louie, which the latter clumsily caught. Clutching a CAR-15, Steve jumped down from the truck, shouting "Waste him!" Both vampires promptly opened fire.

The Terminator fired off a shell that removed Steve's head even as the vampire's burst of fire went wide; Steve's CAR-15 clattered noisily as it fell to the ground amid the cloud of his ashes. Louie's first 12-gauge shell slammed into the Terminator's chest, and was quickly followed by a second and a third even as the Terminator worked the action of his Winchester.

Emboldened by liquid courage, Louie stepped forward as he pumped in a fresh shell, fired again, took another step, pumped, fired again; the Winchester boomed and the shell went wide, the Terminator's aim ruined by a hit to his arm. Louie kept firing, until at last the Remington's hammer slammed home on an empty chamber and the Terminator was blown backward off his feet. The cyborg fell to the ground, landing heavily on his back and lying very still.

Louie grinned at the lifeless body before him. "Hot _damn!"_ he whooped. "More lootin'… hope thish guy's god' sum'thin' good…"

Louie advanced towards the Terminator, weaving and wobbling a little from side to side as he did so. Crouching beside the prone figure, he set the Remington down and peered closely at the cyborg. His eyes widened and his jaw dropped, the sight before him doing the work of an ice-cold shower and about two pints of black coffee.

In one swift fluid motion, the Terminator reached up, seized Louie's head in both hands and squeezed, hard. Louie gave an agonised shriek as he felt his skull cracking and splintering as it was inexorably crushed, and tried in vain to escape the Terminator's powerful grip.

Two seconds later, Louie's ashes were a small pile on the tarmac.

The Terminator sat up and clambered to his feet. Retrieving his Winchester, he advanced on the truck, feeding fresh shells into the shotgun as he went.

Bloody strips of flesh hung limply from the Terminator's face, exposing gleaming silver steel. His left visual array was visible, its red glow burning brightly: the pseudo-iris that had concealed it dripped down the Terminator's cheek, black and viscous, ruined by a shotgun shell that had hit his face and smashed his wraparounds.

Winchester in hand, the Terminator clambered up into the truck, taking a quick glance around. A situation analysis on his HUD indicated only a 0.093% percent probability that Faith had been involved in this incident, but his programming told him to check anyway. As it turned out there was nothing to suggest she'd ever been in the truck.

Jumping back down from the vehicle, the Terminator walked into the ruins of the Magic Box and surveyed the interior, the words **SEARCH MODE **scrolling across his HUD. Finding no sign of Faith, he climbed up into the truck's cab.

Again, his search yielded no sign of Faith, but something atop the dashboard caught his eye: against all the odds, a pair of wraparound sunglasses had survived the crash. The dashboard itself was of considerable interest, too: a police scanner had been installed, along with a highly advanced radio set.

The Terminator activated the scanner; it hissed and spluttered to life before a dispatcher's voice came over the speakers: "All units, all units. 211 in progress at corner of Whedon and Third, the Cameron building. One suspect, Caucasian female, dark hair, mid-teens to early twenties, possible Slayer, treat as armed and extremely dangerous. FBI agents are on-site, SWAT is _en route_. The Mayor has been informed…"

The Terminator shook out the wraparounds and slid them on, concealing the damage to his face.

"…this is One-Ell-Nineteen," came another voice over the scanner; a young man with a southern twang to his accent, "West-bound on Olympic, approaching Overland…"

The Terminator jumped down from the cab and strode back around to the rear of the truck. Vaulting up over the tailgate, he thoughtfully considered the scattered contents of the cargo area.

**To be continued…**

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**A/N:** I'm really sorry for the delay in getting this latest chapter out.

At present, I am working on drafts for half a dozen episodes of the Collected Data Files at the same time. I've gotten the basic plan of the structure of Volumes One and Two of the Collected Data Files pretty much nailed down, now, so that will make my progress easier and quicker.

I've had to throw out and replace a major plot arc I'd planned on using later in the 'No Fate' series, as I recently discovered a series of fanfics (extremely good ones at that) which had already used the idea and were simply far too close for comfort. This required a bit of time in order to have a rethink of what would happen in the future of the 'No Fate' series.

I also dimly recollect hearing some vague rumours about a most bizarre concept called 'real life'. Apparently it is something that I have to make a bit of time for every so often, much though I wish I could avoid doing so…

So, again, I offer my apologies for the delay, and humbly ask for your continued patience. Part Three of 'The Free Spirit' is already in the works, and I hope to post it sooner rather than later.

Many thanks for all the reviews and recommendations - they really help boost my morale - and Happy Hogswatch to you all!

I'll be back,

El ;)


	5. Chapter 5

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**No Fate: The Collected Data Files**

**Chapter Five – Free Spirits Part Three**

**Saturday 31st May 1997**

**Sunnydale, CA**

The podgy security guard looked decidedly nervous as he unlocked the main doors to the Cameron building's lobby. "W-we're cl-closed," he stammered, even as Gibbs shouldered his way past him.

"Federal agents," Gibbs said, flashing his ID as he strode quickly through the lobby, forcing the guard to run a little to keep up, while Tony easily followed in their wake. "We need to get to the top floor, right now."

"Uh… uh… b-but the elevators, th-they're locked down f-for the night…" the guard protested.

"So unlock 'em, then," Gibbs ordered him.

"Buh… buh… b-but I c-could get _fired_ for that! Y-you're n-not supposed t-to be in here this time of night, I could lose my _job_ for this!"

Tony clapped his hand on the guard's shoulder, making him almost jump out of his skin in shock and turn around. "Look at it this way…" Tony began, then paused and made a show of looking at the name badge on the guard's uniform shirt, before spinning the guard around again and giving him a gentle shove to get him moving, following along in Gibbs' wake, "…Ernest – or do ya prefer Ernie? Doesn't matter – what's the worst that could happen?

"Option A, you do as we say and you lose your job – and that's not a given, that's just the worst-case scenario. Option B, you _don't_ do as we say. _That_ means you'll get charged with interfering with federal agents – that'd be us, by the way – in the pursuit of their duties, and spend the next four or five years in a federal penitentiary sharing a cell with a beefy guy named 'Bubba' who wants to make you his special friend. Now, _that_ outcome is one hundred percent stone cold _guaranteed_, Ernie."

As the little party reached the doors to the three lift shafts that ran through the building, Tony patted the now-trembling Ernie on the shoulder and grimaced at the fast-ripening scent of fresh sweat emanating from him. _"Sooo,_ which is it gonna be, Ernie?" Tony continued. "Are you going to cooperate, or are you going to Bubba?"

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

Faith ducked below Smith's roundhouse punch and retaliated by kicking his legs out from under him, depositing the operative on his back. Smith lashed out with a scissor-kick; nimbly, the Slayer leapt above his flailing feet and threw herself into a backwards summersault.

Her caution paid off: a split-second later, Smith's Asp hissed through the air above his torso, where it would almost certainly have struck her had she pressed home the attack instead. Unperturbed, the operative began to clamber back to his feet.

A gunshot rang out; the bullet snarled past a bare inch or so from the tip of Faith's nose as she landed in a crouch a dozen feet away from Smith. Her head snapped around as she dove for cover, and briefly glimpsed Jones, Beretta in hand. Tracking her, Jones fired again.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

Four Sunnydale Police Department black-and-whites poured into the car park in front of the Cameron building, instantly transforming the dimly-lit area into a disco of whirling blue and red lights. Pistols and riot guns in hand, uniformed beat cops began jumping from their cars and ducking behind them.

A podgy man in a security guard's uniform ran from the building waving his hands in the air; two cops promptly grabbed him, wrestled him to the ground and handcuffed him. Ernest whimpered, babbling incoherently in terror. A few seconds later, one of the cops drew his nightstick from his belt and brought it down hard on the Ernest's head, knocking him out.

Alighting from his unmarked car, Stein glanced around at the chaotic scene before him, then grabbed a passing officer. "Sergeant!" he snapped. "I want a command post set up here on the double!"

"Yes, sir!"

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

The figure of a man was reflected in the glass of the side window of the GMC four-by-four, dimly lit by a nearby lamppost as he approached. A gloved fist punched through the window, shattering it and sending glass flying in all directions. The thief unlocked the door and slung an enormous bulging and sturdy canvas sea bag across into the shotgun seat, then clambered in behind the wheel; the SUV promptly dropped an inch on its suspension from the weight.

Laying his Winchester atop the sea bag, the Terminator then considered the ignition assembly for a fraction of a second before glancing up at the vehicle's sun visor. He flipped it down: the keys promptly fell into his waiting hand. Quickly starting the vehicle, he slammed it into gear and pulled away from the pavement with a deafening squeal of tyres, leaving twin rubber streaks across the asphalt.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

Mind racing, Faith back-flipped over a cubicle partition as Jones opened fire, rapidly emptying the Beretta's magazine in her direction. His fire scythed through a bulky computer monitor, a swivelling office chair, the recently-vaulted partition, and a hippo-shaped coffee mug, narrowly missing Faith.

Turning her landing into a backward roll to put as much distance as possible between herself and Jones, Faith saw Smith marching toward her, Asp in his hand. Flicking her left wrist, she sent one of her improvised chain flails snaking out around Smith's ankle and yanked hard on it, pulling his feet out from under him.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

"Sir?"

"I want Whedon blocked off _right_ now—" Stein paused in the middle of shouting orders at the officers around him, and looked over to see the sergeant from earlier. "Yes?"

"SWAT just arrived, sir," the sergeant reported, pointing at where three ugly black SWAT vans had screeched to a halt in the car park, followed by two more squad cars.

"Great!" Stein replied, beaming in delight.

Big and bulky in black fatigues, body armour and webbing, the SWAT commander jogged over. "Lieutenant Ramsay reporting, sir!" he reported.

"Your guys ready to go?" Stein shouted over the racket of cars, orders and pounding feet.

"You bet, sir!" Ramsay replied. "I got another unit on the way, ETA six minutes, but we can go with what we got!"

"Alright, send your guys in, ASAP!"

"You _got_ it." Ramsay reached up and hit a switch on the side of his radio headset. "Alright, boys, we got a green light – get in there and kick ass!"

Sprinting forward by squads, thirty SWAT troopers charged across the car park and into the lobby. Quivering with adrenaline, they leapfrogged their way from one piece of cover to the next, peering suspiciously at every nook, cranny, piece of furniture and potted plant.

Keeping their mouths shut at all times, the SWATs waved their gloved hands through intricate hand signals as they advanced. Unfortunately, these were largely inspired by what they'd seen on television or in movies, and sometimes led to confusion.

Every SWAT trooper was armed with an MP5A3 submachine gun and a Beretta 92 handgun, with plenty of ammunition for both, and a Maglite torch fitted under his MP5's barrel. Each man also carried either a sledgehammer, an Ithaca riot gun or a tear gas grenade launcher strapped across his back. They were further loaded down with body armour, gas masks and abseiling ropes.

The advance squad of SWATs reached the doors of the lifts and emergency staircases. Looking from the heavy metal fire doors to the staircases to the doors leading to the lifts and back again, several of the squad's members shook their heads.

The sergeant leading the advance squad hit the buttons to call the three lifts that weren't in use, and the corresponding doors rumbled open. Seconds later, all three squads had each crammed into a lift, and the doors were trundling closed again.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

Hearing a series of faint metallic sliding and clicking sounds, Faith smirked as she leapt upright and ran for the lift doors, realising that Jones must be reloading. A second later Faith heard a faint whistling noise: she instantly ducked, and was rewarded by the sight of Smith's Asp hurtling past overhead.

The lift doors were in sight – a way out. _'Ain't no way I can take _**both**_ a' these guys at once,'_ Faith thought, forcing herself to run still faster, still harder, discarding her chain flails as she went and gaining speed. _'I try that, I'm just gonna get myself killed real fast. Tee wouldn't want that, wouldn't want me t' throw my life away in some dumbass stunt.'_ A final _click!_ told Faith that Jones had finished reloading, and her lungs and thighs burned painfully as she sped up still further—

**[—]**

Holding his Maglite in one hand and his Sig Sauer P228 pistol in the other, both ready for use and pointed at the floor, Gibbs watched the floor numbers slowly scroll past on the lift's control panel. Tony stood at his side, his own pistol and torch out and ready for use. Country-and-western music that had apparently been performed by tone-deaf yuppies on nose flutes whistled forth from the lift's speakers, until at last it was cut off by a cheerful _ding!_ followed by the doors rumbling open.

Relieved to escape the dreadful music at last, both agents burst out of the lift, snapping their Maglites on and whipping their pistols up. _"Freeze!_ Federal agents!" shouted Gibbs—

—Unable to slow down in time, Faith cannoned into Gibbs as Jones began firing. The Slayer and the NCIS agent went down in a tangle of flying limbs, bullets howling around them. Gibbs dimly registered a startled yelp from Tony, followed by a _thump!_ as he dropped down out of the line of fire and landed on the floor.

Faith blinked down at Gibbs in surprise and shock, realising that they'd stopped moving and she was now lying sprawled across him. Gibbs looked back up at her, looking mildly startled. "You okay?" he asked her, his tone gentle.

"Uh… y-yeah… S-sorry 'bout that, man…" Faith mumbled, then rolled off Gibbs. As Jones continued to take pot-shots at her, Faith sprang to her feet and took off at a dead run towards the doors to one of the other lifts—

With a cheerful simultaneous _ding!_ the doors to all three lifts rumbled open.

Right on cue, thirty MP5s opened up on full automatic, the SWATs blazing away with wild abandon as they poured out of the lifts.

"Oh, fuck _me!"_ Faith shrieked, leaping with cat-like grace away from the hailstorm of hot lead.

"Federal agents! Hold your fire!" Gibbs bellowed, climbing to his feet waving his ID; half a dozen SWATs turned to face him and opened up, sending him diving for cover.

Jones brought his pistol to bear on the nearest SWAT and fired once: the SWAT dropped, blood gushing from a hole drilled neatly between his eyes through the rubber of his gas mask; more of his blood rapidly filled the mask's plastic lenses and turned them a bright shining arterial red. The other SWATs promptly scattered every which way, some still firing wildly as they sought cover. Jones shifted his aim, fired again, and another SWAT went down.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

Ramsay felt the blood drain from his face. "Son of a _bitch!"_

"What is it, what's goin' on up there?" Stein demanded.

"It's a goddamn ambush!" Ramsay spat. "We got three guys down already – no, _four_ now – they're takin' heavy fire, and there's still no positive ID yet on that Slayer we were told about."

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

Sheltering behind a sturdy coffee machine, Tony flinched as dozens of rounds hammered against it. _"Boss!"_ he howled over the racket of two SWATs firing on full automatic in his direction. "What the hell do we do?"

"I repeat: we are federal agents, now hold your fire, dammit!" Gibbs bellowed from his cover behind a filing cabinet. The pair of SWATs shooting at him showed no sign of having heard, and continued to hose the cabinet down.

Gibbs sighed, shaking his head to himself as he checked that his Sig had a round chambered and the safety was off. That done, he leaned out, instinctively aimed and fired once, then ducked back behind cover; the entire exercise took him just under two seconds to complete. One of the SWATs collapsed to the floor, shrieking shrilly and clutching his bleeding thigh.

The second SWAT paused, looked down at the shrieking man, looked back up at Gibbs' cabinet. _"Bastard!"_ the enraged SWAT screamed as he started firing again.

Back behind the cabinet, Gibbs rolled his eyes, exasperated.

So focused was the SWAT trooper on attempting to gun Gibbs down, he failed to spot Faith behind him. Ducking to avoid fire from another couple of SWATs, landing on her back in the process, the Slayer kicked off from the wall and skidded across the linoleum, only coming to a halt between the booted feet of Gibbs' sole remaining SWAT.

"Hey, big boy!" she shouted up at him; startled, the SWAT trooper ceased fire and looked down at her. "Try pickin' on someone yer own size!"

So saying, Faith slammed a two-handed fist squarely into the SWAT's crotch. The man's eyes crossed behind his gas mask and his deafening howl of agony drowned out the din of gunfire and dying screams that filled the vast room.

Nimbly scrambling to her feet, Faith grabbed the SWAT as he clutched at his groin: seizing his webbing harness's straps at his waist and left shoulder, she hoisted him off his feet.

"Bombs _away!"_ Faith whooped, hurling him at the SWATs gunning for Tony. The still-screaming SWAT careened into his colleagues, bowling them over like ninepins. Tony poked his head out as he heard them fall, and his jaw dropped in disbelief.

Faith's head snapped around as she heard several pairs of booted feet pounding against the floor, and saw a four-man fire team of SWAT troopers charging straight toward her. Faith's lips twitched into a predatory grin, and she broke into a run, tearing hell-for-leather directly at the four SWATs before taking a flying leap.

Landing smack dab in the middle of the fire team and using the momentum from her descent to flawlessly drop into a near-perfect display of the splits, Faith lashed out, her knife-hand catching the nearest SWAT trooper in the back of his knee. There was a stomach-wrenching _crack!_ as the knee bent at an unnatural angle.

The wailing SWAT collapsed to the floor. His buddies broke step almost instantly and began to turn to face the newly-arrived threat in their midst, bringing their weapons to bear as they did so.

Faith sprang up, throwing her upper body to one side and spinning to plant a roundhouse kick squarely in the centre of the second SWAT's gut, launching the man into the air from the force of the impact. He flew for almost three full seconds before colliding with the two SWAT troopers who'd been firing at Faith only seconds earlier. All three men toppled to the floor in a tangle of limbs and varying degrees of consciousness.

The third SWAT tried to draw a bead on Faith only to find his chest webbing straps being clutched by a pair of impossibly strong hands; a split-second later, he experienced a brief moment of weightlessness as Faith plucked him off his feet before body-slamming him against the floor. "Pro wrestling, here I _come!"_ she laughed, even as she drew back her left fist and clocked the third SWAT in the jaw.

Turning away from the now-unconscious man, Faith dodged to one side as the fourth SWAT opened fire, stitching a long burst after her as she alternately ran, flipped, twisted and ducked, until at last there came a final _click_ from the SWAT's MP5 as the magazine finally emptied. In a Pavlovian-like reaction, Faith stopped dead on the spot and glanced over her shoulder, shooting the now-trembling SWAT an evil grin.

"_My_ turn," Faith growled.

A second later, Tony jumped, startled, as the SWAT trooper flew past the coffee machine. The SWAT was almost at head height and screaming in terror as he hurtled out of Tony's line of sight. Two seconds after that, there was a distant _thud!_ and the SWAT stopped screaming.

Shaking his head, Tony sank back down behind the coffee machine with a glassy-eyed and dazed expression on his face. Over the sound of distant gunfire and screaming, he heard footsteps approaching him; looking up and bringing his Sig and Maglite to bear, he saw…

"Cut it out, DiNozzo," Gibbs testily growled.

"Sorry, Boss," Tony mumbled, aiming his pistol and torch back down at the floor.

"Hi there."

"_Eyaaah!"_ Tony yelped, leaping to his feet, pistol and torch snapping up and training on the speaker.

"You wanna maybe point that gun an' flashlight someplace else, like, _before_ I cram 'em up your ass?" Faith said in a conversational tone of voice, looking down at the two NCIS agents from where she was crouched atop the coffee machine, a faint grin of amusement on her face. "I can do wicked cool shit like that now-days."

"Uh… y-yeah, okay…" Tony stammered, lowering them.

"_That's_ better." Shifting around so she could sit on the coffee machine and dangling her legs over the side, Faith hopped down and landed lightly on her feet. "Now… come with me if you want to live," she said.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

In the distance, dimly audible over the chaos of the police cordon, there came the roaring of an engine being strained far beyond its limits.

Stein frowned. "What the hell's _that?"_

Ramsay shook his head, still half-listening to the radio chatter from the remaining SWATs still active inside the Cameron building. "It's not my fourth squad – they ain't due here for another couple minutes."

The roaring engine grew steadily louder; seconds later, the Terminator's SUV rounded the corner of Gershman and Eighth on two wheels, its tyres and gears screeching hideously in protest at the abuse. Landing back on all four wheels, it accelerated, heading directly for the cordon as the cyborg gunned the engine, a faint red light glowing menacingly from beneath his wraparounds.

"Don't just stand there! _FIRE!"_ shouted Stein; matching actions to words, he tugged out his own Beretta and began firing wildly at the speeding vehicle.

The assembled members of Sunnydale's finest were quick to follow suit; in a matter of scant seconds, hundreds of pistol rounds and buckshot shells tore through the air at the GMC. Most missed; the others shattered the SUV's windscreens and windows. Dozens of rounds tore into the Terminator alone, ripping at his flesh and clothes alike.

Unfazed, the Terminator adjusted the vehicle's course as he heard first one of the tyres blow out under the barrage, then a second. He ground the gas pedal literally through the floorboards, aiming right at two of the squad cars; seconds later, the GMC smashed head-on into them, bulldozing them out of the way even as the cops sheltering behind the vehicles stopped firing and fled for their lives.

The T-890 fought for control of the damaged GMC, only his inhuman reflexes keeping the vehicle from rolling or deviating from its course.

"Keep firing, dammit!" Stein shouted at his officers, slapping a fresh magazine in his pistol before blasting away like a man possessed.

In an explosion of glass and debris, the GMC crashed through into the lobby, screeching across the polished marble floor until finally its course was abruptly ended by the far wall, the bodywork crumpling like a concertina on impact.

Outside, Stein shook his head in disbelief, then turned to look at where the two squad cars had been shunted aside. "Sergeant!" he shouted, waving at the cars. "I want that breach in the perimeter secured, _now!"_

**[—]**

Inside the Cameron building's lobby, steam rose from the GMC's ruined engine and fuel noisily trickled from a rupture in the petrol tank, forming a pool that was fast-spreading across the floor.

A powerful kick tore the driver's door from its hinges and sent it flying across the lobby. The door hit the wall side-on and stuck fast, vibrating noisily from the force of the impact.

Seizing his sea bag and Winchester, the Terminator stepped down out of the wreck. Skin was torn completely away from his left bicep and right forearm, revealing his gleaming chrome combat chassis.

Marching across the lobby, the Terminator considered his options. The lifts, he decided, were too slow, and were on the top floor in any case. Fortunately there was an alternative: beside the lifts, a door – a heavy metal fire door, painted red-orange – led rightward, an illuminated **'EXIT'** sign above it.

The Terminator tried the door. It was secure, locked for the night. He let his Winchester dangle on its shoulder sling, then leaned into the door, felt its metal construction buckle under the pressure he exerted. The T-890 struck it, once, twice, three times, felt and saw it deform with each blow, and finally it was warped enough that the final blow slammed it open. The crash it made echoed loudly up the staircase before him.

The Terminator advanced, grasping his Winchester once again as he began to make his way up the staircase. His speedometer flashed on his HUD as he accelerated, booted feet pounding relentlessly against the stairs.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

Standing surrounded by the bodies of a dozen dead SWAT troopers, Jones and Smith moved in perfect synchronisation: each man inserted a full magazine into his appropriated MP5's housing and clipped it home, then brought his left hand down in a vicious chopping motion to release the cocking handle from the retaining notch. Exchanging another brief glance as they collapsed their MP5s' wire-frame stocks, the operatives turned and walked away from each other, starting to search the honeycomb of worker bee cubicles.

Peering around a set of filing cabinets, Faith leaned back to address Gibbs and Tony. "Alright – I'll draw 'em off, and you guys just… look, I dunno what your deal is, but get the fuck outta here, okay?" she whispered. "Trust me, you _really_ don't wanna tangle with these psychos."

"What? Are you _crazy?"_ Tony whispered back, but it was too late; Faith had already leapt to her feet and raced around the cabinet. Turning to Gibbs, Tony saw he'd already risen up into a firing position, pistol ready.

Two SWATs raced around the floor's central block, which housed the lift shafts and staircase, and opened fire in Faith's general direction. Gibbs shifted his aim towards the new threat and fired a single shot: one SWAT trooper went down with a bullet in his shin, screaming and cursing noisily as he did so; his buddy dove behind a photocopier, poked his MP5 out around it and fired blind on full automatic, sending Gibbs diving for cover once more.

"DiNozzo! Covering fire!" shouted Gibbs.

"On it, Boss!" Tony leaned out and fired vaguely in the SWAT's general direction, unloading his magazine as quickly as he could and forcing the SWAT to flee for cover.

Faith sprang at Jones; the operative dodged to one side, letting off a quick burst from his MP5 as he did so. Landing, Faith feinted with a punch; avoiding it, Jones ran straight into her snap-kick, which sent him flying. The operative collided with a wall, his head hitting hard, and from there fell to the floor like a discarded rag doll.

Snapping her head around, Faith saw Smith – MP5 in hand, muzzle aimed directly at her, his finger tightening on the trigger—

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

Reaching the staircase's fifth floor landing, the Terminator punched the heavy metal fire door once, then a second time. It crashed open, falling off its hinges and clattering to the floor.

Ten yards ahead stood Smith, aiming an MP5 at a target to the Terminator's left, outside the Terminator's line of sight.

Combat-oriented menu selections and situation analyses popped up into the Terminator's visual display far faster than either he or Smith could possibly move.

The analysis program was clear: given his attire and shaven head, it was very likely that Smith was another Wolfram & Hart operative. Furthermore, it would take more than a second for the Terminator to bring his Winchester to bear and fire. In that time, Smith would likely have pulled the MP5's trigger, and that was definitely undesirable.

The Terminator rejected that option; instead, he kicked the fire door lying at his feet.

The warped slab of metal skidded across the floor in substantially less than a second. More than a hundred kilograms in mass, it crashed into Smith's ankles with a sickening _crunch!_ of breaking bones.

Smith, his legs knocked out from beneath him, fell forward onto the door, firing as he fell, grimacing from the pain but otherwise looking as implacable as ever. The MP5 chattered briefly on full automatic, bullets ripping out across the wall and ceiling in an erratic and badly aimed spray.

The Terminator dropped his sea bag and broke into a run, quickly accelerating towards where Smith lay prone. The operative snapped his MP5 around, bringing it to bear on the charging Terminator, and squeezed the trigger, firing off a long burst that stitched its way across the T-890's chest, neck and face at near-point blank range. Sixteen rounds later, the MP5 _click_ed as the breach locked open on an empty firing chamber.

A split-second later, the Terminator's gloved left hand closed around Smith's throat and yanked him bodily off the floor as the relentless machine halted his charge. The operative's feet dangled almost a full metre above the floor; the MP5 clattered to the floor as Smith clawed uselessly at the T-890's grip. The Terminator's fingers flexed, breaking Smith's neck with a _snap!_ that loudly echoed throughout the labyrinth of cubicles, instantly crushing the operative's vertebrae and shredding his windpipe.

For Gibbs and Tony, time seemed to stop.

Faith seemed to move in slow motion, her jaw dropping and her eyes widening in shock.

The Terminator stood frozen in place, his right hand gleaming brightly where it clutched his Winchester, his left hand locked around the dead operative's neck.

Shining chrome armour plating showed through where the skin had been shot away from the Terminator's chest. His wraparounds had fallen victim to Smith's final burst, leaving his left visual array burning bright crimson in the darkened room. Slowly, slowly, his head swivelled, blood red gaze falling upon Faith.

The Terminator opened his left hand. Smith's body fell to the floor, discarded, forgotten, dismissed as irrelevant.

A deafening high-pitched scream of terror rang out: four heads snapped around in near-unison as the last active SWAT trooper hurled his MP5 away and ran for the stairs. The Terminator raised the Winchester and tracked him, only for a shout of "Hold fire!" from Faith to stop him from pulling the trigger.

Bursting through the doorway, the SWAT trooper hit the staircase running, booted feet clattering noisily against the solid concrete and echoing loudly as he descended.

Shaking her head, Faith turned back to the impossible sight before her. "Tee…" she breathed in disbelief, "I thought you were freakin' _dead!"_

"The electrical attack successfully shut me down," the Terminator said. "I had to reboot. It was not easy; I almost failed to reactivate myself."

"Y-you mean you came b-back from the dead?" Faith stammered. "F-fer _me?"_

The Terminator's expression remained implacable. "Yes," he said.

With a whoop of delight, Faith took a flying leap at the Terminator. Flinging her arms around his neck and wrapping her legs around his waist, she rested her temple against his, staring intently into his mismatched organic and artificial eyes. Faith let out a deep breath, then pulled back just far enough to plant a soft kiss on the Terminator's blood-spattered brow.

The Terminator wrapped his left around Faith, supportively placing his left hand in the small of her back. There was a quiet clattering sound as he released his grip on the Winchester and brought his right hand up.

Mesmerised, Tony stared as the Terminator's right hand tenderly caressed Faith's cheek. The fingers were as finely crafted as the inner workings of the finest watch in the world; hydraulic servomechanisms all along the Terminator's forearm quietly whirred and hissed as his fingers flexed and contracted.

Removing her left hand from behind the Terminator's neck, Faith reached up and patted his hand even as she pressed her cheek against the cool metal. Her shoulders began to tremble, and she felt a familiar stinging sensation in the corners of her eyes.

Slowly, uncertainly, the Terminator began to ever-so-slightly rub his left hand back and forth across her back. Faith buried her face in the machine's shoulder, breathing in deeply of his scent: a heady aroma of leather, cordite and burned flesh filled her nostrils.

Faith felt her trembling redouble as her eyes stung and her vision blurred. A solitary fat tear escaped from the corner of her eye and trickled down her cheek.

The Terminator cupped the back of Faith's head with his right hand, the bare metal fingers tenderly stroking her hair. "I'm back," the Terminator assured her.

Faith shuddered uncontrollably now as a sob escaped her. Squeezing her eyes shut tight, Faith clung to the Terminator as if for her life, quivering as powerful sobs wracked her.

The Terminator continued to soothingly rub Faith's back and stroke his exposed metal fingers through her hair. He was reassuringly solid and unyielding, a walking talking _fact_ that could not, even with the best will in the world, ever be denied or questioned or doubted.

Still weeping tears of joy and relief, Faith held on tight.

Her friend – the first person she'd ever truly been able to trust – was back, and she was no longer alone.

Gibbs tapped Tony on the shoulder; when the younger agent turned to face him, Gibbs jerked his head off to one side. "Let's give 'em some privacy, DiNozzo," he said, keeping his voice low.

"B-but… but… th-that's… that's a Terminator…" Tony stammered. "A _real_ Terminator…"

Gibbs raised his hand as if to headslap Tony, then glanced over at the reunited Slayer and Terminator and decided not to risk disturbing them. "Yeah, that's right, and I'm pretty sure that both he _and_ Ms Lehane there would appreciate a moment alone, so _move_, DiNozzo," Gibbs quietly growled.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

"Ramsay! What's happening, what's goin' on in there?" Stein demanded.

Ramsay's hand trembled as he lowered it from his headset. "Uh… s-sir… I, ah… several of them are wounded… a-and at least ten are dead, maybe more," he reported, his voice quavering.

Stein felt his jaw drop. "Ho-ly _shit,"_ he breathed. "Alright – use the fourth squad to beef up the perimeter. They gotta come out _some_time; we'll just wait 'til they do."

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

Feeling physically and emotionally drained, Faith still trembled a little as she rested her head on the Terminator's shoulder, wrapped up in his powerful arms. Slowly, shakily, she raised her hand and wiped the last few of her tears from her face.

"Love you, big guy," she whispered, so quietly on the Terminator could hear her. "I freakin' _love_ ya."

"I…" the Terminator began, then paused. "I… remember love," he said, sounding faintly puzzled.

"From when you were human?"

"Yes. I… I loved my friends… and was loved by them."

"You still havin' trouble with feeling emotions?"

"Yes."

Faith gently patted his back. "Don't worry 'bout it – I'll help ya figure 'em out," she assured him.

"Thank you."

Unseen, Faith smiled. "You're welcome."

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

Unmarked and slightly tatty-looking, the van drew no attention to itself as it drove through the night.

"Any more news, guys?" the driver asked, directing his question at the two young men in the back of the van.

Hunched over a police scanner with a pair of powerful headphones on his ears, the shortest occupant of the van shook his head. "Not a lot – they still say they think there's a Slayer holed up in the Cameron building, and someone – or some_thing_ – really hammered the SWAT team. Stein's got his guys digging in outside the building now, and he's calling in every cop in town. They sound pretty certain that their, uh, suspect has _dark_ hair, though, not blonde."

"I guess that probably means Buffy hasn't come back, then," the van's fourth occupant put in, typing busily away on his laptop.

The driver nodded. "Sounds like there's a new Slayer in town."

"Buffy could be wearing a wig or-or have dyed her hair, guys," suggested the teenager in the shotgun seat. "As, y'know, a disguise – 'cause she knows the cops 'round here still think sh-she murdered Kendra."

"Hey, Andrew's got a point, there," said the police scanner's operator.

"Either way, Jon, it sounds like there's a Slayer in trouble with the Sunnydale PD," said the laptop's operator. "Doesn't really matter if she's Buffy or not – we gotta help her, right, Colonel?" he addressed the latter part of his comment to the driver.

Had the driver been anyone else, he would have given a deep sigh of exasperation. Instead, he simply raised an eyebrow and glanced in the rear-view mirror at his companions. "Warren… we are _not_ calling ourselves 'the A-Team' just 'cause we've got my van, okay?" he said calmly.

Warren Mears grinned sheepishly. "Sorry, Oz. It's still kind of hard not to get psyched by how _cool_ all this stuff is, and… well, sorry."

"You're right, though," Oz conceded. "We gotta help her. Andrew?"

"Uh, yes?" Andrew Wells said nervously.

Oz jerked his head towards the nest of road maps stacked haphazardly in Andrew's lap. "Can you find us an alley somewhere near the Cameron building?" Oz asked. "Somewhere we can park without the cops seeing us, where we can get a look at what's going on and plan our next move."

Andrew beamed delightedly. "I'm on it, Rogue Leader!" he promised, already rifling through the maps. Holding one up, he quickly traced a route with his right index finger, shook his head, then began tracing another one. "Oh-_kay_… hang a left at the next intersection."

"Once you've got a route, bring Warren up to speed so he can make sure we get green lights all the way," Oz instructed. "You've still got that backdoor into traffic control, right?" he asked Warren.

Warren grinned, flexing his fingers over his keyboard. "Sure thing, Boss-man – any route you like, no delays," he vowed.

"Uh-oh," said Jonathan Levinson, listening intently to his headphones.

"That doesn't sound good," said Warren. "Whatcha got, dude?"

"Stein just called in air support," Jonathan explained. "Y'know that little Kiowa helicopter the cops use for highway patrols on the weekends? It's airborne, ETA two minutes."

"Andrew?" said Oz. "Can you find us a route that'll make us harder to spot from the air for when we get closer to the Cameron building?"

"Umm… one sec… yes!" Andrew tapped the top-most map, then traced his finger over it and grinned triumphantly. "Yeah, this'll work – if we take that little alleyway between Bruker and Lake Street, we'll be exposed for, like, all of two _seconds_ crossing Lake, but once we're across then all the fire escapes and stuff'll hide us, and if we drive on sidelights only they'll _never_ see us coming! And we can make it in three minutes, maybe four, tops!"

"Al-_right!"_ Warren crowed with a grin.

"Good work," Oz said, giving Andrew a curt nod.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

"So, who're you guys and what's your deal?" Faith asked, as the Terminator retrieved his Winchester and sea bag.

"Special Agent Gibbs, NCIS; this is Agent DiNozzo," Gibbs said, proffering his ID for examination. "We're in Sunnydale looking for an AWOL petty officer; could be foul play."

Faith glanced questioningly at the Terminator. "Tee? Whatcha reckon?"

The Terminator stared at the ID for barely half a second, examining it in minute detail. Multiple magnified images of various parts of the ID flashed up on his HUD. "It is authentic, and he is telling the truth," he concluded.

"Wait, he's got some kinda lie detector built in?" Tony asked.

"Not really the best time for that, DiNozzo," Gibbs lightly chided him.

"So what're you guys doin' _here?"_ Faith asked, pointing at the floor.

"That'd be 'cause you jumped on the roof of our car, then jumped off again," said Tony. "Then we saw those Keystone Kops chasing you over the rooftops and shooting at you… we wanted to find out what the hell was goin' on, so we tagged along."

Faith looked blank for a second, then her eyes lit up with realisation. _"Ohhhh_… right. That was you guys, huh? Sorry 'bout the dent – I was kinna tryin' to not get shot at the time."

Gibbs shook his head. "Not a problem."

"'Preciate it. So, what's NCIS?"

"Naval Criminal Investigative Service," said Gibbs

"The short version is we're kinda like the Navy and Marines' version of the FBI," Tony explained.

Faith nodded. "'Kay… so, we cool then?"

"Yeah, provided you guys don't try and hijack one of our submarines anytime soon," Tony joked.

Faith shrugged. "Ain't likely, but if we do, you can bet there'll be a real good reason for it," she said.

Tony blinked, puzzled. "Uh, I don't—"

"Long story, and this ain't the time," Faith cut him off. "Now, whadda you guys want to do? Come out with us, or split and do your own thing?"

"We might as well stick together," said Gibbs. "I'm guessin' the rest of the local LEOs won't be an improvement over their SWAT team."

Faith looked blank. "Huh? You talkin' about horoscopes or somethin' now?"

"'LEOs' is shorthand," Tony explained. "Stands for 'law enforcement officials'."

Faith slowly nodded. "Ah, so it's an acronym. Gotcha."

"The police had established a cordon around the building when I arrived," said the Terminator. "They have likely sent for reinforcements since then."

"Let's take a look outside before we plan our next move," Gibbs suggested.

"Yeah, place this size has gotta have a security office someplace, right?" said Faith.

"We find it, tap into the security cameras, and get a look at what we're up against – sounds good," Gibbs agreed.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

The thumping of rotors sounded deafeningly over the car park as the Kiowa traffic observation helicopter arrived and swung in close to the Cameron building. Slowing, it raked its powerful xenon searchlight across the windows, illuminating the interior of the second and third floors.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

Flopping down in one of the security office's abandoned swivel chairs, Faith exaggeratedly waggled her fingers before positioning them over the nearest keyboard and cycling through the building's CCTV camera feeds. "Uh-_oh,"_ she muttered.

"What is it?" asked the Terminator.

Faith glanced over her shoulder at the T-890. "We got company – cops," she said.

"How many?" Gibbs asked.

"Uh…" Faith cycled through the remaining few cameras, finding that nearly two dozen cruisers and SWAT vans in the livery of the Sunnydale Police Department had filled the building's otherwise-empty car park. "…alla them, I think."

The Terminator gave a curt nod. "I will take care of the police."

Faith nervously bit her lip. "Uh… Tee, you're not gonna go on a killin' spree, here, are ya… right? I mean, these guys might be asshole Keystone Kops an' real fuckin' trigger-happy, but I don't think they deserve to get _killed_ over it… Welllll… maybe not _alla_ them…"

The corner of the Terminator's mouth twitched into a small and lopsided grin. "Trust me," he said. With that, he set his sea bag down on the floor and unzipped it.

Standing up and heading over, Faith gave a low whistle, impressed. "Shee-_it_, Tee… have you been window-shopping again?"

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

Oz's van inched forwards down the alleyway, and finally halted behind a parked car. Applying the handbrake and switching off the engine, Oz turned to look at the rest of the Scooby Gang's active members.

"Okay, guys: Warren, you're with me – we're gonna go see what's happening," Oz began; Warren nodded and began shutting down his laptop. "Jonathan, Andrew, I need you to stay here. Jonathan, you'd better get ready up front in case we need a quick getaway; Andrew, you can take over on the police scanner."

"Why can't _I_ be the emergency getaway driver?" Andrew complained, failing to hide a pout as Oz clambered into the rear area of the van.

"'Cause only Jonathan and me know how to drive stick," Oz said gently, then tapped the van's gear lever for emphasis. Grinning back and nodding, Andrew set his maps aside and followed Oz into the back while Jonathan squeezed between them and wriggled into the driver's seat.

"What gear should we take, dude?" Warren asked.

"You got your basic stuff on you?" Oz replied.

Warren opened his lightweight denim jacket. "Two stakes, a flashlight, a cross, and a bottle of holy water," he said, indicating the items in question, which were strapped securely in place.

Oz nodded. "Okay – we'll each take a CPC and five wooden bolts; you take the binoculars, I'll have a walkie-talkie. Andrew? It's your job to handle the radio on this end."

Andrew nodded seriously. "You can rely on me, Captain."

Rummaging in the van's trunk of weapons, Warren handed Oz a collapsible pistol crossbow and a small pouch of bolts, then selected another crossbow and pack of bolts for himself. Opening the duffel bag beside the trunk, Warren pulled out a compact pair of binoculars in their case and a walkie-talkie.

Handing the latter to Oz, Warren set about securing his equipment and weaponry in pouches carefully sewn into the lining of his jacket. Looking up at the others, Warren spread his hands wide and grinned. "How do I look?" he asked.

"Like an average unsuspecting idiot who's just begging to wind up vamp chow and a paragraph in the school paper's obits section," Jonathan gently teased him. "Just like… oh, I dunno, another six hundred or so high school students and college freshmen in this town."

"Perfect," said Warren. "Hey, Andrew, nice job on these pouches – they work great." He looked down at himself, shaking his head in wonder. "There's, like, no bulges or crap like that showing, and I can't feel anything digging into me anywhere."

Andrew smiled shyly at the older teen. "Thanks, Warren – I-I'm glad you guys like 'em."

"You ready?" Oz asked Warren.

Warren nodded. "As I'll ever be."

"Cool." Oz turned to the other two teenagers. "See you guys in a half hour, tops. Keep the channel open."

Andrew nodded, looking serious. "We'll be here."

"May the Force be with you," Jonathan added.

Reaching over, Oz slid open the van's side door and clambered out into the alley, Warren close behind him.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

The CEO's office was vast, fitted with floor-to-ceiling windows, and was furnished with only a solitary executive desk, several chairs and a water cooler.

With one bulky weapon in his hands, a second slung across his back, an empty satchel hanging at his side and two bandoliers of ammunition strapped across his chest, the Terminator calmly strode across the office, starkly outlined by the Kiowa's searchlight as it raked through the darkened building.

Without breaking stride, the Terminator kicked the desk toward the window. The desk rolled across the floor on its little wheels at an impressive speed. Glass exploded outwards as the desk smashed through it and plummeted to the car park below.

"_Fire!"_ Stein roared, snapping off pot-shots with his pistol. All down the Sunnydale PD's line, sergeants and other officers took up the battle cry, opening up with everything they had the instant the Terminator reached the gaping hole in the window.

From behind their squad cars and whatever other cover they'd found, more than eighty police officers poured their fire into the Terminator, blazing wildly away with riot guns, pistols and MP5s. The air was filled with flying lead and shards of glass; more of the Terminator's skin shredded under the relentless fusillade, exposing the armoured combat chassis that lay beneath.

Unhurriedly taking aim, the Terminator sighted on the nearest squad car and pulled the trigger, firing from the hip with inhuman accuracy. The M240 general-purpose machinegun in his hands snarled and spat; tracer rounds glittered as they arced through the air, while armour-piercing rounds shredded the vehicle's engine block. Glass flew every which way, glittering in the night, as the car's windows and lights shattered under the impact of multiple hits.

The two cops sheltering behind the car broke cover and fled; as soon as they were clear, the Terminator adjusted his aim and fired a short burst. The car promptly exploded as white phosphorous from tracer rounds ignited the contents of the vehicle's petrol tank.

**[—]**

"Holy _shit_ – he's got a goddamn machinegun!" the Kiowa's pilot shouted into his radio, then pulled back on the pilot's yoke and banked sharply away.

**[—]**

The Terminator took aim and fired once again; more cops fled from hiding, and seconds later another squad car was burning merrily. The M240 clicked as the hammer slammed home on an empty firing chamber; the hundred-round belt had been depleted.

Instead of reloading the machinegun, the Terminator slung it and reached across his back for the other weapon strapped there – an M32 grenade launcher. A bulky six-round drum fed the launcher, making it look vaguely like an oversized revolver.

The Terminator took careful aim at a SWAT van; half a dozen cops immediately broke cover from behind it, running for all they were worth. The Terminator pulled the trigger; a hollow _choonk_ sound marked the launch of the grenade, which smashed its way through the engine to the petrol tank and detonated.

The resulting explosion threw the van up into the air, spinning it around like a toy until gravity took over once again, and the vehicle landed heavily on its rear before toppling over onto its side, a fire fast spreading backwards from the engine block.

First one, then two, then five, then a dozen police officers began breaking cover and fleeing from the cordon.

The M32's drum spun, presenting a fresh chamber ready for firing. The Terminator sighted on another squad car and fired; the vehicle promptly burst into flames. The drum spun once more; still more cops stopped firing and broke ranks. The Terminator sighted on an unmarked car this time and fired again.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

Hiding amid a cluster of dumpsters overlooking the Cameron building and its car park, Warren let out a low whistle of admiration as he peered through his binoculars. As he watched, Detective Stein fled from cover seconds before his car exploded. "It's just like _T2!"_ Warren exclaimed.

"What's going on?" Oz asked.

"Oz, I swear by the almighty Rodenberry that there is a real live _Terminator_ up there shooting at the cops," Warren said, handing over the binoculars. "Take a look, man – there's, like, plenty of skin and shit ripped off him so you can see his combat chassis. He's not using a Model 101 skin sheath – he'd look like Arnie if he was – but that's _definitely_ a Terminator up there."

Accepting the binoculars, Oz twirled the focusing dial as a second SWAT van blew up. "Huh…"

"What, what is it?"

"I think I recognise the Terminator."

"Really?"

Oz nodded as he lowered the binoculars and handed them back to Warren; another two squad cars were ablaze by now. "I've seen him in some of Willow's pictures of the founding Scoobies – that's Xander Harris."

Warren frowned as he raised the binoculars and focused, watching as the Terminator emptied the spent shell casings from the M32, then began feeding fresh grenades into the drum's chambers. "I thought I heard he died, last Halloween? In that… that chaos spell that went wrong, the whammy on a bunch of Halloween costumes? That was, like, a couple of months before my folks and me moved here."

Oz shrugged as another SWAT van erupted in flames. "Willow said they never found Xander's body," he pointed out. "There was just a big circular crater in the road, right where he was standing when the spell activated."

Warren shrugged, lowering the binoculars and turning to Oz. "Maybe… maybe the spell worked? Just… maybe it didn't work the way it was _supposed_ to work? Maybe it turned this Xander guy into a Terminator after all?"

Oz shrugged again. "That, or maybe it's just a really weird coincidence," he suggested.

"A coincidence?" Warren laughed. "On the _Hellmouth?"_

"Devil's advocate," Oz said. "Someone had to do it."

Warren patted him on the shoulder. "The whole 'responsibility of leadership' really _sucks_ sometimes, huh?"

Oz gave a small amused smile. "I guess."

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

As he slung the newly-reloaded M240 across his back, the Terminator's optical sensors tracked back and forth across the car park. Every single vehicle the police and brought with them was burning by now. Text scrolled up on his HUD:

**0000 00 000000**

**0000 00 000000**

**0000 00 000000**

**0000 00 000000**

**0000 00 000000**

**0000 00 000000**

**HUMAN**

**CASUALTIES: 0.0**

**[—]**

"He-he's just standing there, now, sir," the Kiowa's navigator reported into his radio headset, peering through a small pair of binoculars as the helicopter hovered at what the crew hoped was a safe distance. "He, uh, I _think_ he's reloaded his gr-grenade launcher and machinegun – he was doing _something_ with them, and I guess he musta needed to reload by now – but he's not shooting again."

"Well what're you waiting for, a fucking RSVP? Get in there and _shoot_ the sonuvabitch!" Stein shouted over the net.

"B-but, sir, we ain't flyin' a gunship here, our bird's got no weapons fitted," the navigator protested.

"So fucking _what!_ Who cares! _You've_ got weapons – fly up to the bastard, open a fucking window and waste him!" Stein screamed. "Christ, do I have to think of _everything?_ You don't need to be a fucking _rocket scientist_ to do a _drive-by!_ Now get fucking moving before I hand your asses over to Hizzoner the Mayor!"

The Kiowa's pilot and navigator exchanged nervous glances. "Look at it this way," said the pilot, "so far that guy's only blown up a bunch of cars – he didn't shoot any of our guys that I saw."

"Is that _really_ supposed to make me feel better?" the navigator groused as he drew his MP5K machine pistol. Chambering a round, he flicked the selector switch to full automatic and carefully 'flagged' his index finger by holding it straight next to the trigger housing instead of wrapped it around the trigger.

The pilot shrugged. "Well, if you wanna take it up with the Mayor instead…?"

The navigator shuddered. "You're right. Screw it – let's just get this over with."

**[—]**

The Terminator watched impassively as the Kiowa bored in fast. At the last possible second, the pilot killed the helicopter's speed and swung it around so that it hovered with the navigator's door facing the Terminator. Popping open the door, the navigator leaned out, MP5K in hand, grasped the vertical foregrip with his left hand to steady his aim, and opened fire at point-blank range.

The little MP5K noisily gobbled its way through the contents of its magazine. Just under three seconds later, all thirty rounds had been fired off, most of them hitting the Terminator's head and chest, injuries that would have instantly killed a human being.

Showing absolutely no sign of even noticing that he'd just been repeatedly shot, the Terminator rapidly took one step, then a second, and hurled himself out into space.

"Oh, _shiiiiit!"_ the navigator screamed, and slammed his door shut.

The Terminator rocketed across the small gap to the hovering Kiowa and bodily slammed into the canopy. The impact – a combination of a Terminator, a small arsenal of heavy weaponry and a large quantity of ammunition, which together weighed nearly half a ton – pitched the helicopter alarmingly.

Startled, the pilot desperately fought to regain control as the Terminator clung to the shattered cockpit canopy. A nightmarish figure, the T-890 smashed his head through the plexiglass, then reached up with one hand and began tearing away more and more of the canopy, until at last he had room to climb halfway through the jagged hole.

"Release the controls," said the Terminator, his voice calm but quietly menacing. _"Now."_

Terrified, the pilot quickly nodded and snatched his hand from the pilot's yoke as if the plastic had grown red hot. In a flash, the Terminator's right hand had grasped the yoke, exposed metal fingers clasped firmly around it.

**[—]**

Crouching behind a small and neatly-trimmed bush, Oz cautiously peered out at the cowering police officers. Making sure they were all transfixed by the Kiowa whirling crazily through the sky, Oz leaned back behind cover and tapped Warren on the shoulder, then pointed. Warren nodded, then followed Oz's lead as they scurried around the edge of the Cameron building's car park.

Halting behind a somewhat ornate-looking shrubbery, the two teenagers peered out to watch as the Kiowa drunkenly landed next to a burning SWAT van in the middle of the car park.

"We gotta get inside," Oz whispered.

Warren looked doubtful. "What if the Slayer's already left?"

Oz shrugged. "It's the only lead we've got."

"Good point," Warren conceded.

Oz tapped him on the shoulder and nodded towards the shattered main doors. "Now," he said, leaping up from hiding and sprinting for the doors, dodging and diving from one piece of cover to the next, Warren right behind him.

**[—]**

Hyperventilating in terror, the Kiowa's pilot and navigator stared transfixed at the Terminator. Shutting down the engine, he then began methodically tearing apart the helicopter's controls and instruments; in short order, he'd reduced them to a mess of plastic shrapnel and shredded wiring.

"Your weapons and ammunition," said the Terminator, his exposed optical sensor burning brightly and tracking from one man to the other and back again. "Give them to me."

Frantically fumbling, the pilot and the navigator hurried to comply. Each handed over an MP5K and a Beretta 92, with several full magazines for each.

"Get out," commanded the Terminator.

The pilot and the navigator paused only to exchange a brief glance, then violently hurled open their doors and leapt out of the immobilised aircraft. Both men hit the ground running as if every vampire on the Hellmouth were chasing them.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

"Wow… this place looks like a war zone, dude," Warren breathed, stunned by the sight of the devastated lobby and the wrecked SUV.

Oz nodded as he drew a stake, then pointed to the empty doorway with an illuminated **'EXIT'** sign above it. "C'mon."

"We going up?" Warren asked, shaking himself out of his stupor and drawing his pistol crossbow, hitting a switch on the side to extend its spring-loaded arms.

"Yeah."

"Uh, Oz?" Warren asked as they made their way through the doorway and began their ascent.

"Yeah?"

"What floor do we get off at?"

Oz shrugged. "Whichever one's had its fire door ripped off."

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

Calm and unhurried, the Terminator reloaded the navigator's empty MP5K, then shovelled the pistols and ammunition into his satchel. Hefting an MP5K in each hand, he slithered backwards down the Kiowa's nose and dropped to the ground, then strode across the car park toward where Stein and the other police officers were sheltering forty yards away, behind the earth bank that ran along its perimeter.

Poking his head out of cover, Stein saw the bloodied cyborg marching towards him and felt his stomach knot in instinctive terror. "Drop him!" he screamed at the cops surrounding him.

The fourth squad of SWAT troopers were the first to follow Stein's order, leaning up over the earth bank and blazing away with their MP5s on full automatic, hosing down the advancing Terminator, who was now only thirty yards away. Slowly, in groups of twos and threes, the beat cops joined in, filling the air with hundreds of rounds from their pistols and riot guns.

Onwards strode the Terminator, straight through the hailstorm of flying lead, closing the distance to twenty yards, then ten. Raising one of his MP5Ks, he fired a single shot, drilling the nearest SWAT trooper through the leg. The man dropped, shrieking like a banshee as he clutched his bleeding thigh; the other machine pistol came up and fired, dropping a beat cop with an identical injury.

The Terminator shifted aim and fired his machine pistols over and over again as he found new targets. Every shot fired dropped a police officer to the ground, alive and screaming. More cops leapt up and fled into the night, many throwing their weapons to the ground; the Terminator paid them no heed, focusing exclusively on their still-armed colleagues.

Finally, the Terminator aimed his machine pistols and fired one last shot from them each; twin hammers slammed home on empty firing chambers, two more cries of agony rang out as Stein and Ramsay fell to the ground.

"Oh, _fuck!_ You goddamn sonuvabitch, you fucking _shot_ me!" Stein howled over Ramsay's hysterical screeching.

The Terminator stared down at him, gaze impassive. "You'll live," he said, then turned his head to survey his handiwork.

Exactly sixty police officers writhed in helpless agony on the ground, each bleeding from a single gunshot wound. The helicopter's controls were completely destroyed; it would take a lot of work to make it airworthy again. Twenty-seven squad cars and SWAT vans littered the car park, either still ablaze or by now burnt-out wrecks.

Only three beat cops were left who remained unwounded; the other unwounded officers had fled by now. The remaining cops were armed with Ithaca riot guns which they nervously aimed vaguely in the Terminator's direction, the barrels wobbling uncontrollably in their trembling grips. The Terminator tucked his now-empty MP5Ks away in his satchel; the beat cops relaxed slightly at that.

Then, with deliberate slothfulness, the Terminator pulled his .45 Longslide from where it was tucked into the waistband of his shredded leather riding trousers, chambered a round and disengaged the safety catch, then raised the pistol.

All three cops promptly bolted, hurling their riot guns aside as their nerve broke.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

"Aw_right!"_ Faith whooped, triumphantly pumping her fist in the air. "Cops're all down, guys, and we are _outta_ here!"

Gibbs nodded as he watched the events unfolding on the security office's monitors. "Sure looks like a clean sweep," he agreed.

"I can't believe it," Tony said quietly. "I mean… that guy just took out, what? Fifty cops? Maybe more? And then there was that thing with the chopper… a-and all those cars…"

"Hey, come on, Space Cadet, save the fanboy stuff for later, 'kay?" Faith said, patting him on the shoulder.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Initiative Base of Operations Echo Four, Sunnydale, CA**

Deep in thought, Walsh watched as the drama played out on the control room's monitors. A group of five emerged from the Cameron building's ruined main doors and crossed the debris-strewn car park to where Hostile 405 was confiscating weapons and ammunition from the fallen cops. After a minute or two of conversation, the little group headed for a nearby alleyway together.

"I recognise Osbourne and Mears," Walsh slowly said, "but who are _those_ two with them?" she asked, pointing at the screen.

"I'm running their pictures now, Director," Miller spoke up from his terminal. "Here we go… they're NCIS agents, ma'am, Gibbs and DiNozzo. Umm… according to NCIS's personnel listings, they're in Sunnydale looking for an AWOL petty officer. They were previously assigned to a case in Boston that involved Hostile 405; they got taken off when Major Simmons and the NID took the case over."

"Alright… I want Hostile 516 monitored, Level 10 surveillance rating," Walsh ordered. "And keep tabs on Gibbs and DiNozzo, at least for as long as they're in town: Level 7 surveillance rating for now."

Finn nodded. "Yes, Director," he said, then picked up the nearest intercom handset and began issuing orders.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**A/N:** Many thanks everyone who's left reviews – they really make the effort feel worth it, and that inspires me on to greater efforts.

Chapter Six is in the works and (with any luck) will bring the episode _Free Spirits_ to its conclusion. (If it doesn't, then Chapter Seven should do the job.) More chapters are works-in-progress, to, so hopefully the gap between Chapters Six and Seven will be shorter.

I'll be back,

El ;)


	6. Chapter 6

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**No Fate: The Collected Data Files**

**Chapter Six – Free Spirits Part Four**

**Saturday 31st May 1997**

**Cameron Building, Sunnydale, CA**

Standing before the gaping hole in the office's floor-to-ceiling window, Mayor Richard Wilkins the Third shook his head sadly as he surveyed the scene of carnage in the car park below. The end of his tie flapped loosely in the breeze. "Tsk, tsk… my, my, someone sure made a mess here, eh, Allan?" he remarked over his shoulder.

Deputy Mayor Allan Finch gave a nervous nod. "Uh, th-that they did, sir."

There came a knock at the office's doorway. "Mr Mayor?"

Wilkins turned and beamed at the vampire at the door. "Mr Ellsworth! Do come in," said Wilkins. "Have you seen what a truly _spectacular_ view you can get from this window?"

"As a matter of fact, sir, I did stop in this office when we first got here," Ellsworth admitted as he entered the office, brushing a speck of lint from the cuff of his John Phillips suit. "That's a very nice view right there, very nice indeed. I couldn't stay to admire it properly, though – we had to sweep the rest of the floor."

"That's a shame, it really is," Wilkins sympathised. "Ah, well, as my dear old mom used to say, such is life – or death, as the case may be."

"Very true, Mr Mayor," Ellsworth agreed. "Sir, we've identified some of the combatants."

A small frown crossed Wilkins' face. "I thought the battle was between the Slayer – the _new_ Slayer, I should say – Sunnydale's finest, and some federal agents who for some reason became homicidal after enlisting our police department's assistance?"

"We have new evidence to suggest they weren't genuine federal agents, sir," Ellsworth said, and held out two small business cards. _"These_ were found on the persons of the supposed agents."

Wilkins accepted the cards and examined them carefully, then sharply looked back up at Ellsworth. "You're sure these are genuine?" Wilkins asked, abruptly all business.

"Yes, sir – at least short of using a divination spell. I'll send some of my guys to hunt Rack down and get him to take a look at them if you want?"

Wilkins shook his head. "No, that won't be necessary, thank you."

"Uh, wh-what is it, sir?" Finch quavered.

"A lot of trouble, Allan," Wilkins said quietly. "A lot of trouble."

"There's something else, sir?" said Ellsworth. "One of the operatives is still alive."

Wilkins gave Ellsworth a bright and sunny smile. "Really?" Wilkins rhetorically asked.

"Yes, sir. He's unconscious just now."

"_Well_ then… let's give him a warm welcome, shall we?"

Finch gave a polite cough. "Uh… Mr Mayor?" he interjected. "B-before that, uh… Chief Pressman w-would l-like a minute."

Wilkins clicked his fingers. "Oh, gee whiz, I _knew_ I'd forgotten something…"

"He's right outside, sir – I could show him in if you'd like?" Ellsworth offered.

Wilkins beamed at the vampire. "Mr Ellsworth, you, sir, are an absolute champ – please do."

"Very good, sir." Ellsworth gave a half-bow then left the office.

Wilkins shook his head. "Whatever would I do without you, Allan?"

"Well, uh, y-you're too kind, sir," Finch replied just as the door opened once more.

"Dwayne, I'm _so_ sorry to have kept you waiting," Wilkins said by way of greeting.

"No problem, Mr Mayor, no problem at all," Pressman panted, mopping sweat from his ruddy red face with a hanky as he waddled in.

Pressman's tremendous girth was somehow squeezed into a uniform that was at least three or four sizes too small for him, although said uniform was immaculately turned out, the trousers' creases were razor sharp and the coat's buttons gleamed brightly even as they strained mightily to keep his bulk covered. He was in his mid-forties, and his remaining hair was rapidly turning prematurely grey.

"That's _most_ good of you to say so, Dwayne," said Wilkins. "Now, I understand you wanted to see me about something…?"

"Yes, sir – it's the new Slayer and the Harris kid, or whatever he is nowadays," Pressman said as he tucked the hanky away. "I, uh, wondered what my boys should do about them?"

Wilkins pursed his lips and put his arm around Pressman's shoulders in an avuncular manner. "An excellent question, Dwayne, an excellent question," he conceded.

"I-I mean, if y-you want us t-to arrest them, well, you see, sir, I'm gonna need to wait a couple months before my boys are outta hospital, a-and I'll probably need to recruit a lot more officers first…" Pressman stammered. "A-and I know I've only been doing this job for a week, b-but I'm pretty sure we can't take 'em with just a couple dozen beat cops and three detectives an' me, 'cause everyone else in the department's laid up with gunshot wounds or dead…"

"Well, Dwayne, so long as they don't interfere with my activities, I see no reason why we can't leave this new Slayer and Mr Harris alone for now," said Wilkins. "Your predecessor was just a _little_ overeager where young Ms Summers was concerned, which drew the risk of outside attention, and… well, to be completely honest, Dwayne, that's a big part of the reason _why_ he's your predecessor. Dear old Julius was just a little too eager for his own good… and very chewy. Salty, too."

Pressman winced at that. "Yes, sir," he said dutifully.

"So, if you feel you can spare the manpower, then by all means keep an eye on our new Slayer and Mr Harris," Wilkins smoothly continued. "But otherwise, please don't worry about them. If they should become… inconvenient, shall we say? …in the future, then I'm _sure_ that Mr Ellsworth and the Public Relations Department can see to it that they cease to be a problem."

Pressman nodded quickly, relieved. "Yes, sir. _Thank_ you, sir."

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**800 Hurd Way, Sunnydale, CA**

Faith closed her eyes for a moment and rested her head against the bathroom's tiled wall. It was reassuringly cold to the touch.

Cracking her eyes open again into narrow slits and pushing off from the wall, she watched as the Terminator stepped inside the room and closed the door.

Grasping the bottom of her tank top, Faith gingerly pulled it up inch by inch, wincing in pain as she felt pressure against her cracked ribs as the garment slid over them.

Crossing over to the sink, the Terminator held his left hand under the hot tap's spray for several seconds, squirted anti-bacterial soap onto the skin covering it, then rinsed off before drying his hand on a nearby towel. Servos whirred and hummed whenever his right hand moved.

Faith bit her lip to keep from crying out as she reached behind herself and fumbled to release the catch on her bra, the flesh over her ribs tightening in response to her movements.

Slowly shrugging out of the bra's straps, trying to avoid putting any more pressure on her ribs than necessary as she did so, Faith finally let the garment fall to the floor as she let out a quiet sigh of relief.

On the other side of the bathroom, the Terminator was rapidly divesting himself of his ruined motorcycling leathers, until he soon stood unashamedly naked. Faith glanced over, a small smirk forming on her lips as she paused for a few seconds to admire the view. The T-890's back and legs had been riddled with bullets, but his skin sheath was holding together very well despite so much punishment.

**[—]**

The flat contained comfortable and good-quality furniture, was located in a small block in the wealthy end of town, and in most respects looked like the residence of a fairly normal if very successful pair of roommates.

The one thing that spoiled this impression was the small but impressive arsenal of heavy weaponry, ammunition, grenades and explosive charges that were laid out on the kitchen table.

Shaking his head, Tony set the empty Winchester back down on the table. "This is _exactly_ like the shotgun that Arnie used in _T2_…" he muttered in disbelief.

Gibbs gave a small grunt of exertion as he lifted an enormous sniper rifle, checking that the chamber was empty and there wasn't a magazine in the housing. Raising the bulky rifle to eye-level, he squinted through the scope.

"Whatcha got there, Boss?" Tony asked

"Fifty-cal M82A1 Barrett," Gibbs replied as he lowered the rifle and put it down.

Tony winced. "That must pack a punch, huh?" he guessed.

"Ya _could_ say that, DiNozzo," Gibbs said drily. "This thing was designed to penetrate the armour plating on light tanks and helicopter gunships."

**[—]**

The Terminator examined himself in the bathroom's main mirror, which ran from the ceiling down to the lip of the bathtub. He poked experimentally at the flap of skin that hung freely across his chest, then the strips of flesh that dangled from his face beneath his left eye.

Turning smartly on his heel, the Terminator marched past where Faith was cautiously wriggling out of her leather trousers, and opened the bathroom door.

**[—]**

At the sound of the door to the flat's bathroom opening, Tony looked up, startled, and was greeted by the sight of the Terminator striding across the main open-plan living room that adjoined the kitchen.

Tony promptly blinked, doing a quick double-take.

Stark naked, dangling flaps of skin bobbing gently in time to his movements, the Terminator crossed to a small writing desk in the lounge. Rummaging among the stationery on the desk, the Terminator located a stapler and headed over to a nearby mirror.

"…okay, that's just _gross,"_ Tony said quietly, watching in horror and disgust as the Terminator calmly began to staple the larger piece of loose skin back into place over his left bicep.

Gibbs shrugged. "Different strokes fer different folks, DiNozzo," he disinterestedly replied, before returning his scrutiny to the weaponry on the kitchen table.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Initiative Base of Operations Echo Four, Sunnydale, CA**

"Charlie Tango Four Two One, do you copy? Over."

Static was the only reply that the radio operator received.

Patiently, Sergeant First Class Vaughan keyed his headset again and spoke into his headset's boom microphone: "CT-421, report, over."

More static hissed over Vaughan's headphones.

Sighing, Vaughan lowered his voice. "Fer chrissakes, Bill, _report_ already!" he hissed urgently into his mic.

Finn broke away from the small knot of personnel that now surrounded Lieutenant Miller's station across IBO Echo Four's control room, and headed over. "What seems to be the problem, Vaughan?" Finn asked.

The radio operator looked up at Finn's approach, startled. "Uh, sir, it's, ah, it's tonight's supply run, sir, CT-421," Vaughan stammered. "The driver's now twenty minutes overdue to check in, and I can't raise him."

"421… that's Sergeant Candy, right?"

Vaughan nodded quickly. "Yessir."

Finn frowned, puzzled and a little taken aback. "It's not like him to miss a check-in… Have you tried the vehicle's GPS beacon?"

"I was just about to do that, sir," Vaughan said, already tapping commands into his terminal's keyboard to bring up a map of Sunnydale. A label reading **'CT-421'** was connected to a stationary red dot.

Finn's frown deepened, and he glanced over his shoulder. "Uh… Director? Ma'am, I really think you need to see this."

"What is it?" Walsh demanded as she quickly crossed the control room.

Finn gestured to Vaughan's monitor. "Our supply run for tonight hasn't checked in, and according to this, the vehicle's stopped moving," Finn explained.

Walsh gave him an unreadable look. "Who's the driver?"

"Master Sergeant William Candy. He's not too bright, but very reliable – there's absolutely no way he'd break SOPs like this."

Walsh nodded, staring at the screen. _'This happens on the same night that Hostiles 405 and 516 arrive in town? That can't be a coincidence…'_ she silently mused. "Agent Finn?" she said aloud.

"Yes, Director?"

"Take a team and investigate CT-421."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Full combat load-out and body armour all around," Walsh continued. "Prisoners are desirable but not strictly necessary."

Finn nodded. "Understood, ma'am."

"Dismissed," Walsh said, giving him a curt nod.

"Yes, ma'am," Finn replied, even as Walsh began heading back to review the footage from the cameras covering the Cameron Building.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**800 Hurd Way, Sunnydale, CA**

Faith stood under the shower head, her eyes closed and her mind focused on the simple pleasure of the sensation of the stream of hot water gently washing through her hair and over her body.

Faith sighed in blissful contentment as she put her hands against the wall of the shower, and let the water run over the back of her head and shoulders. The heat felt good against her muscles, soothing some of the aches and pains she'd stocked up on earlier as it washed the dust and grime of that night's patrol away.

She heard the door open and close again; opening her eyes and turning to glance over her shoulder, Faith saw the Terminator was back. A line of staples crudely held the damaged flaps of skin in place over his face and bicep; his shining silver combat chassis gleamed through a few small gaps here and there, his right hand was still completely exposed, and his left eye still glowed bright crimson, but he'd done a pretty good job patching himself up.

Turning off the shower, Faith sat on the side of the tub as the Terminator wrapped a thick warm towel around her and began to dry her off. Faith hissed in a brief flash of pain as the T-890 gently patted the towel over her cracked ribs, then relaxed as he moved on.

**[—]**

"You ever see anything like this before, Boss?" Tony asked.

The two NCIS agents had retired to the flat's luxuriously-appointed guest bedroom several minutes previously. Gibbs's overnight bag sat in the middle of the bed he'd picked out for himself; Gibbs himself sat in the room's armchair by a small bureau, reviewing his notes for the Mulgrew case. Tony lay sprawled across the bed he'd been left with; a widescreen television set dominated the wall opposite the bed's head, and when he'd first switched it on, he'd been delighted to find a _Three Stooges_ marathon in progress.

Gibbs glanced up from his notes, realising that an ad break had interrupted the Stooges. "How'd ya mean, DiNozzo?"

"Well… _y'know._ Weird stuff, stuff that shouldn't be possible," said Tony.

Gibbs shrugged. "Well, that's the real trick, isn't it? How do you know when something should or shouldn't be possible?"

Tony looked puzzled. "Uh… how d'ya mean, Boss?"

Gibbs rubbed his jaw distractedly. "Think back to what folks were like about… oh, say two or three thousand years ago," he began. "Back then, everybody _knew_ that the Earth was flat; everybody _knew_ that the Earth was the centre of the universe and everything – the Sun, the planets, the stars, _everything _– revolved around it, right?"

Tony nodded. "Right."

"But you and me – we know differently," Gibbs continued. "How come?"

"'Cause… someone proved that what everybody knew was wrong?" Tony suggested.

"Right." Gibbs tossed his pen onto the bureau and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his hands over his face for a second as he did so. "You wanna know something a little crazy about people, Tony?"

Tony shrugged. "Sure?"

"We get so… _certain_ we know how the world works," said Gibbs. "And then… when we find something that doesn't fit what we think, what we know… we just don't know what to do, or what to think. Sometimes we try to hide from it, no matter how blatantly obvious it is; and sometimes we embrace it only to later find out it's all a lie…"

"Everything we've seen tonight seems pretty damn genuine to me, Boss."

Gibbs nodded. "That leads us to _our_ problem, Tony," he said softly.

Tony blinked, startled. "Wh-what problem's that, Boss?"

"What do we do next?" Gibbs asked rhetorically.

Nervous, Tony gulped. "Uh, y-yeah, I've been meaning to ask, Boss – what're we gonna put in our reports? A-and we've gotta say _something_ to explain how come there's a dent in our car's roof…"

"Yeah, well, if we try to tell folks about this – _any_ part of this – without a _lot_ of proof, the Director's gonna have us institutionalised," said Gibbs. "And short of convincing Harris to come back to the Navy Yard for a 'show-and-tell', I don't think we'll pull that off."

"Right… right," Tony said, then grinned and met Gibbs's gaze. "Abby would freak out for sure if she ever met him, though – she'd probably want her picture taken with him, his autograph, the works."

For a fleeting moment, Gibbs's lips twitched into a small smile. "Yeah," he agreed. "But, getting back to your original question… yeah, I saw some 'stuff that shouldn't be possible' once."

"Really?" Tony blinked. "Wow. Uh… d-did you, uh, ever talk to anyone 'bout what you, ah, what you saw?"

Gibbs shook his head. "No, no way – I never told anyone about what happened." He snorted. "No way would anyone have believed it without being there, or seeing something similar. Something like tonight's events, for example."

"Sooo… what happened, Boss?" Tony asked.

Gibbs blew out a deep breath. "It was back when I was still in the Corps," he began. "During the late Eighties, I was detached from regular duties and temporarily assigned to provide support to various federal agencies as a… specialist… for some of their operations."

Tony grinned. "Let me guess – you were a 'troubleshooter'?"

Gibbs gave a wry grin at the pun. "Something like that," he agreed. "There was this one op… It was fairly basic stuff, I'd done it all plenty of times before, so I didn't anticipate any trouble."

"What was the op?" Tony asked, curious.

Gibbs shook his head. "I'm not goin' there, DiNozzo," he warned. "You don't need to know that, and besides, it doesn't relate to what I saw."

Tony winced. "Sorry, Boss."

"Anyway… I'd picked out a building, one that was exactly what I needed," Gibbs continued. "Big, empty, lots of access points, quick getaway… the works. And I was setting up my gear and getting ready to spend the night there when _she_ turned up."

"Who?"

"The girl who kicked my ass and wiped the floor with me," Gibbs said simply.

"No _way!"_ Tony protested, grinning. "C'mon, Boss, what _really_ happened?"

"I mean it – she was throwing me 'round the room like I was a Raggedy-Ann doll," Gibbs said seriously, and the grin promptly vanished from Tony's face. "I hit her with everything I had, got a few real good shots in, too… and I barely even slowed her down."

"So… how'd she do that, steroids or something?" Tony asked.

Gibbs shook his head. "This girl was… I dunno… thirteen years old, _maybe_ fourteen, tops? She was about four foot eight and musta weighed all of eighty, eighty-five pounds soaking wet? I coulda wrapped my hands around her arms real easy, too – no _way_ was she on steroids."

"But… but… _how?"_ Tony protested. "How's that possible?"

"I dunno. Never found out," said Gibbs. "Hey, DiNozzo – you ever get in any fights in school?"

"A few, sure."

"Ever fight a kid who was older and bigger and stronger than you?"

Tony shrugged. "Couple of times," he admitted.

"Do ya remember what it feels like – that feeling when you just _know_, real deep-down, that this guy is _way_ stronger than you are and you haven't a hope in hell?"

"Kind of, yeah."

Gibbs slowly nodded. "I had that feeling all over again when I tried ta hold my own against that girl," he said.

Tony shook his head. "Yeesh. Sounds like it got pretty bad, Boss."

Gibbs gave a dry, humourless chuckle. "Yeah, that _really_ wasn't fun," he agreed.

"So… what happened? How'd you beat her?"

"I didn't," said Gibbs. "All of a sudden, this guy came outta nowhere, grabbed the girl by the scruff of the neck and threw her clean across the damn room into the wall. She shook it off like it was nothing, and they started whaling on each other – I'm pretty sure they forgot I was there after that."

"You got any idea who he was?"

"Nope," said Gibbs. "He… well, I didn't get a good look at him, but he looked pretty average, really. Kind of like the girl – I couldn't see anything to explain how he was so strong, or so damn _fast_…

"From what I saw, they seemed pretty evenly matched. After 'bout half a minute, the girl threw the guy through the wall – no kidding, he smashed straight through a brick _wall_ – and leapt after him, and I lost track of 'em after that…" Gibbs shook his head. "I heard 'em kicking the crap outta each other, sometimes getting closer, sometimes further away… then, after a while, nothing. The noise just stopped.

"I found where my sidearm had landed and went lookin' for them. Not really a smart move – I shoulda scrubbed the mission and got the hell outta there – but I wasn't exactly thinking all that straight at the time, and… Well, doesn't matter now. Point is, after a minute or so, I found them.

"Well… I found the girl, at least."

"Where was the guy?" Tony asked.

"I dunno," Gibbs confessed. "I never saw him again. The girl was breathing pretty hard, like she was kinda bushed… and she had a pointed bit of wood in her hand, like… like a tent peg or something like that, y'know?"

He paused, frowning. "There was somethin' else, too… you ever notice how when you're stressed and your adrenaline's flowing, sometimes you start to focus on little things around you? Little stupid things that don't mean anything?"

Tony nodded. "Yeah, I know what you mean, Boss."

"There was a little pile of ash on the floor of that room," said Gibbs. "It wasn't there when I'd first checked the floor was empty, and I swear to god, DiNozzo, I have no idea where it came from or how it got there."

"Could it've been leftovers from someone's smoke break?"

"That woulda have to've been one helluva a smoke break, DiNozzo," Gibbs said, shaking his head. "It would've taken at least a dozen cigarettes to produce so much ash, and I think I woulda noticed someone waltzing in the building after me and getting through _that_ many smokes."

Gibbs sighed. "Anyway, she looked over at me, and apologised – said she'd thought I was someone else. I turned my back for a second, looking around, trying to figure out where the guy had gone… when I looked back, the girl had left. Just… vanished."

Tony slowly nodded. "Thanks, Boss," he said quietly.

Gibbs shrugged. "No problem." He paused, glancing back at his notes. "You know what the real kicker is, DiNozzo?"

"What, Boss?"

"That girl I just mentioned?"

"Yeah?"

"When we were inside the Cameron Building, didja see how Lehane took down those SWATs?"

"Sure – well, I saw _some_ of it, Boss."

Gibbs jerked his head towards the door. "Lehane's got the same kinda moves, same speed and strength, as the girl who kicked my ass."

Tony blinked, startled. "Y-you th-think they're connected somehow? Got the same source for their… their powers?"

Gibbs shrugged again. "Could be. Either way, DiNozzo… we aren't getting any answers 'til tomorrow."

**[—]**

_Clunk._

The pair of pliers closed around the next flattened slug and prised it out of the Terminator's chest. Pulling the pliers away, Faith dropped the metal disc into a nearby plastic bucket.

_Clunk._

Nude save for the medical tape wrapped around her chest over her cracked ribs, Faith sat on a stool, the wood feeling pleasantly smooth and warm beneath her bare bottom. The naked Terminator squatted before her, resting on the edge of the bathtub.

_Clunk._ A buckshot pellet dropped into the bucket.

"Tee…" Faith began, then paused.

_Clunk._

"Yes?" asked the Terminator.

_Clunk._

"I, uh… you ever wonder why? Why you got programmed t' protect _me_, of all people?"

_Clunk._

"No."

_Clunk._

"But… why me?" Faith persisted. "Why not one a' those other Slayers, Buffy an' Kendra?" _Clunk._

"I mean, I know we didn't get the full picture from—" _Clunk._ "—that Oz dude, we only jawed fer, like—" _Clunk._ "—five minutes, but it sure sounds like some real heavy—" _Clunk._ "—shit went down, an' fer sure that Kendra chick coulda used—" _Clunk._ "—a bodyguard like you t' watch her back." _Clunk._

"I sure ain't complainin' or nothin'—" _Clunk._ "—just… puzzled. I mean, I ain't—" _Clunk._ "—done nothin' important. I'm just—" _Clunk. _"—the new Slay-gal on the block." _Clunk._

"Perhaps you are asking the wrong questions," suggested the Terminator.

_Clunk._

Faith looked puzzled. "Huh? How d'ya mean?"

_Clunk._

"You ask 'why you'," said the Terminator. "Perhaps—" _Clunk._ "—you should be asking 'why _not_ you'?"

_Clunk._

Faith slowly smiled. "Hmm… yeeaah… you could be onta somethin' there, Tee. Thanks!"

_Clunk._

"Secondly, you could consider the Terminator films," the Terminator continued, as he turned around and swung his legs over the side of the tub to face the wall and present his back to Faith. "In both films, the various Terminators' target is the same, albeit for different reasons."

_Clunk._

"John Connor," said Faith.

_Clunk._

"Correct," said the Terminator. "He was not targeted for—" _Clunk._ "—anything that he had already _done_—"

"—He was targeted 'cause of what he was _going_ to do in the future, when he was all grown up an' shit," Faith interrupted, realisation dawning.

_Clunk._

"Precisely," said the Terminator. "It is possible that I was given my mission priorities for similar reasons."

_Clunk._

"So I'm gonna, what, save the world or somethin' one day?" Faith asked.

_Clunk._

"That is a theoretical possibility," the Terminator agreed.

_Clunk._

"But I ain't some big-league Slayer like Buffy or Kendra," Faith argued.

_Clunk._

"Not yet," said the Terminator. "However, you should remember that only three years ago, Buffy Anne Summers and Kendra Young were not even Slayers."

_Clunk._

"So… given enough time, I could one day be in their league?" Faith asked, sounding hopeful.

_Clunk._

"Yes," the Terminator said calmly.

_Clunk._

Faith grinned. "Cool."

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**The Council of Watchers' Headquarters, London**

As he entered the De Rothesay Room, Travers noted that, despite it being almost a fortnight after the revelation that a new and unknown Slayer had been activated, it was still a hive of activity. Travers' eyes alighted on several other members of the Senior Council, who were loitering around the room and trying to appear to be performing important functions. Curiously enough, there was a complete absence of any Hunter Force personnel

"Doctor," Travers brusquely greeted Robson, taking him to one side.

Robson gave a polite nod. "Mr Travers. Did your conference with the Coven go well?"

Travers gave a long-suffering sigh. "As well as could be expected, I suppose," he grudgingly conceded. "They're still uncomfortable with us after that business with that power-mad idiot McIntyre – not that I can really blame them, I suppose. The Elders are willing to continue the talks at another time, but that's about all we could agree on. Now, what news from Sunnydale?" Travers asked, lowering his voice.

Robson grimaced. "Ten days ago, the Hunter Force team found Doctor Giles in hospital, having been extensively tortured," he said quietly. "He informed them that the Scourge of Europe attempted to activate Acathla and destroy the world."

Travers paled at that. "Acathla again…" he breathed.

"Yes, sir," Robson said, a hint of sympathy in his tone. "Slayer Kendra was killed by Drusilla," he continued. "No one knows Slayer Buffy's whereabouts, or what her current condition is. Mr Haskell has confirmed that she's still alive, and she seems to be somewhere within the Hellmouth's sphere of magical interference, but that's really all we know for certain."

Travers nodded slowly. "What of the new Slayer? Is there any word on her?"

"As it turns out, she's _also_ entered the Hellmouth's sphere of influence," said Robson.

"Really? Hmm. Could she be actively seeking the Hellmouth, or Doctor Giles?" Travers suggested.

"Both are possible, sir, but we have no way to tell for certain."

"What about Slayer Buffy's… civilian associates?" Travers asked.

"Apparently one's hospitalised, one's left the country, and the rest are believed to be dead," Robson listed off.

Travers growled at that, balling up a fist in anger. Giving a deep sigh, he felt the tension bleed out of himself, and he gently rapped his knuckles against the conference table. "There's a _reason_ we keep civilians _out_ of the line of fire…" he muttered, more to himself than to Robson, then sighed deeply. "How many of her associates are dead?" he asked.

Robson pulled a printout out of the chaotic mess of books and papers that covered the table. "Erm… at least two or three humans, possibly four… and Angelus, of course," he read off. "Information on Slayer Buffy's associates is a bit sketchy – and there were several more local civilians who occasionally worked with their group but weren't regular members. It's believed that some of them may have been killed, too."

"I'd like to say I'm surprised that Angelus reverted to form, but we both know that I would be lying," Travers sighed heavily. "What about Drusilla and William the Bloody?"

"No confirmation either way, although there's a rumoured sighting of William the Bloody in São Paulo – that intelligence is very fresh, it came in less than an hour ago."

Travers nodded. "Alright – when Matthews next reports in, tell him I want his team to start patrolling the town, and see if they can find out what happened to Slayer Buffy while they're at it."

Robson looked confused. "Matthews, sir?"

"Yes, Mr Matthews," said Travers, frowning. "He _is_ still in command of Hunter Team Six, isn't he?"

"Ah, yes, sir, but Team Six deployed to Borneo six days ago to destroy the Grakh'nar hatchery that Mrs Fitzwilliams located," said Robson.

"So which team went to Sunnydale?"

"Team Two, sir."

Travers felt his blood run cold. "Jem Collins and those two… _thugs_ of his?" he asked very quietly, almost spitting the word 'thugs'.

Robson swallowed nervously. "Yes, sir."

"I gave _specific_ orders before I left for Team _Six_ to deploy to Sunnydale – what complete _imbecile_ sent Team _Two_ to—?" Travers broke off, casting a suspicious sidelong glance over at Charles Caulderhale, who was chatting earnestly with James Roberts.

"Doctor," Travers said very quietly, "it was Caulderhale who changed the Hunter Force team assignments, wasn't it."

Robson nodded, looking decidedly uncomfortable. "Shortly after you left for Devon and went _incommunicado_ at the conference, sir," he confessed.

Travers sighed. "I leave for _five_ minutes to try to patch the Alliance back together, and Caulderhale's _already_ throwing his weight and pet gutter-scum around." He shook his head ever-so-slightly to himself. "Alright – tell Collins I want his men patrolling the town…" he broke off and sighed again as he saw Robson wince. "I take it that Team Two is no longer in Sunnydale, then?"

"That is indeed the case, sir – Mr Caulderhale ordered them to deploy to New York in response to a rumoured sighting of Kakistos," Robson apologetically said. "The, ah, the sighting was unconfirmed, though, sir, and since arriving there they've reported no leads."

"Oh, marvellous," Travers said drily. "So what you're telling me, Doctor, is that as of this moment, this Council has absolutely no active assets operating on the Sunnydale Hellmouth _whatsoever?"_

"Yes, sir."

"What about the reserve team? Can we at _least_ send them in?"

"Team Nine deployed to St Petersburg five days ago, sir – there was a confirmed sighting of several members of the El Eliminati in the sewers."

"When will they be back?"

Robson winced again. "We've lost all contact with them, sir. They checked in immediately after arriving in the city, but since then…" he trailed off and spread his hands helplessly.

Travers silently uttered something obscene and anatomically impossible in Welsh in the privacy of his head.

"Sir… there _is_ one other thing…"

"Of course there is," Travers muttered.

"It concerns… it concerns Slayer Kendra's body."

"I trust that Team Two at _least_ recovered her remains and brought them back here before they went gallivanting off to New York?" Travers growled, as he turned a hard and flinty gaze upon the younger Watcher.

Robson flinched, but ploughed onwards. "Mr Travers… Sir… Team Two reported that they learned from the local morgue that a cousin of Slayer Kendra's claimed her body… ten days ago."

"_What _cousin?" Travers demanded. "That mad priest murdered her family when he was searching for her, she doesn't have a single living relative – Doctor Zabuto raised her from infancy."

"Yes, sir."

"Do we know where her body is now, or who has it?"

"No, sir."

Travers took a deep breath and reached out to grasp the back of a nearby chair to brace himself, feeling unsteady on his feet. "Doctor… are you _seriously_ telling me that one of the oldest and most honoured traditions of this Council has been _violated?_ Namely, the tradition that the mortal remains of a fallen Slayer be laid to rest for all time in the company of her sisters-in-arms within the sanctuary of the great halls of the City of the Slayers, where they may remain undisturbed and safe from molestation or interference? A tradition that has been upheld for nearly seven hundred years?"

Robson nodded unhappily. "I am, sir."

Travers breathed out heavily. "Doctor… I want you to contact Zabuto," he said quietly. "Tell him I need him to travel to Sunnydale… and recover Slayer Kendra's body for burial."

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**800 Hurd Way, Sunnydale, CA**

Clad in comfortable emerald green silk pyjamas, Faith slipped gratefully under the sheets of the king-sized double bed before nestling her head down into the soft and welcoming depths of her pillow. Reaching out to the lamp on her nightstand, she clicked it off, plunging the room into darkness.

The Terminator stood at the foot of her bed. He was naked from the waist up, although he'd donned a new pair of leather riding trousers and boots. He held his Winchester by its stubby sawn-off pistol grip in his left hand, resting the barrel on his shoulder; his .45 Longslide was tucked in the waistband of his trousers.

While the Terminator's skin sheath still more signs of damage, it had stopped leaking its blood-like nutrient fluid. Faith had removed all of the slugs and buckshot pellets, leaving only small wire sutures visible where she had neatly sewn up the rents and tears in his flesh.

Faith blinked drowsily as she watched the Terminator slowly and ponderously rotating his head back and forth. He ran through a constant circuit, turning from the main bedroom's door over to face the window and then to look at her, then back to the window and back to the door, over and over again. Blood-red light gleamed from his exposed optical receptor; a silver slash of moonlight filtered through a small gap in the curtains, illuminating the T-890's face.

Faith blinked again, then tilted her head back and opened her mouth wide in an enormous yawn. Her eyelids felt so heavy… so very… very… very… _heavy_…

"Tee?" Faith murmured.

"Yes?" the Terminator quietly replied, his gaze fixing on her.

Faith tried to focus on his eyes, one warm and brown and so very human, and the other a shining chrome machine that glowed a deep inhuman red. "Love ya, man," she whispered.

The Terminator regarded her in silence for several seconds. "Sleep well," he finally said.

Faith didn't hear him.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Unknown**

_The city kills_

_Sucks you dry_

_Brings you down_

_Makes you high_

_Broken glass_

_Broken bones_

_Broken dreams_

_And broken homes_

_There's no answer when you look around_

_For some way out of this dirty town_

_Dirty town_

Seventies-era British rock 'n' roll blared from the jukebox. Faith looked around, puzzled, wondering how the jukebox beside her was able to work, given that both she and it were in the middle of a desert, and the jukebox wasn't plugged in.

_Hookers in doorways_

_In their disguise_

_Just kids on the corner_

_With neon in their eyes_

_Neighbourhood girls_

_Just dressed up for the kill_

_Lonely old boys_

_Going down for a thrill_

_There's no answer when you look around_

_For some way out of this dirty town_

_Dirty town_

The day was just dawning, thin streaks of light that gradually unrolled the darkness across the valley to reveal a scene of raw beauty and unexpected tranquillity. A dozen hills made for a majestic landscape, forming a vast valley around Faith and the jukebox. Faith glanced down at herself, and noted that she was dressed for Slaying.

_There's a place I could take you one day_

_There's a place we could go together_

_Beyond the gasworks_

_Out into nowhere_

_There's a place we can go forever_

_The sun goes down_

_The night grows in_

_The hustlers get paid_

_From the wages of sin_

A small whirlwind blew up from nowhere, sending sand spiralling higher and higher up into the sky overhead, which was by now a brilliantly blazing shade of blue. Faith raised her hands to shield her eyes, peering through slits between her fingers at the sandstorm as it grew larger and larger.

_Wheelers and dealers_

_Will play all their cards_

_Life would be easy _

_If it wasn't so hard_

_There's no answer when you look around_

_For some way out of this dirty town_

_For some way out of this dirty town_

_For some way out of this dirty town_

_For some way out of this dirty town_

_Dirty town_

_Dirty town_

_Dirty town_

As abruptly as it had arrived, the sandstorm died away at the same time as the sound of Ray Simms' voice, revealing a huge man dressed in black motorcycling leathers. His head rotated like a gun turret, slowly, slowly, slowly, until he was staring straight at Faith through his wraparound sunglasses. Turning on his heel, he strode towards her.

Faith lowered her hands from her face as the Terminator halted a few feet away from her. The sun beat down mercilessly now, turning the desert into a sweltering sauna. Faith felt sweat running down her face from the heat as she looked up at the Terminator's emotionless face, a faint sense of recognition nagging at her.

"You're, uh… Bob, right?" said Faith. "That's what John Connor – the _young_ Connor – called you? 'Uncle Bob'?"

"Yes," intoned the Terminator.

"And you're an 800 Series?"

"Yes."

Faith slowly nodded. "This is one a' those Slayer dreams that Tee told me about," she said quietly, more to herself than the T-800.

Bob heard her anyway, and rumbled a response of "Correct."

Faith nodded again as the desert began to melt away, like wisps of fog burned by the dawn. The desert gave way to a hilltop by the sea – with a start, Faith realised it was somewhere on the coast a little way outside Sunnydale, Kingman's Bluff, if she remembered correctly, and they were standing near the edge of the cliff.

"So, what's this all about, Bob?" Faith asked.

"De future," he said simply, and pointed out at the horizon. "Watch."

Shrugging, Faith turned her head to look at what he was pointing at.

The sky was bright and clear, a brilliant blazing blue, right out to the point where it met the shimmering sea on the edge of the world itself. Over the next several minutes, Faith's breathing slowed as she watched the waves slowly roll in and out from the shore, and she gave a lazy smile as she enjoyed the calm. It was, she silently decided, really rather soothing.

A twinkle of light – sunlight glinting on metal or some other shiny surface – flashing high up in the sky caught her attention. Faith tipped her head back and peered up at it as it flashed again. Faith squinted up at the light, and noticed that a small golden circle surrounded it now.

Faith blinked, and saw the light was closer now – closer and lower. What she'd first thought was a gold circle was growing fast, a ripple of flame spreading fast across the sky itself. The light twinkled again, more brightly this time, from within the eye of the storm, in the very centre of the expanding disc of fire.

Closer and closer came the light, plummeting fast from above as flames raced across the sky until at last they swept out to the horizon itself, blazing away. And still the light fell, fell, fell—

With a deafening thunderclap, something slammed into the ground and the flames overhead dissipated in an instant.

Faith scrunched her eyes closed then opened them again, trying to shake away the coloured spots of light bursting before her eyes. When her vision cleared, she saw that once again, the sky was bright and clear, the sun shining brightly down.

And, stuck point-first in the turf before her, still vibrating from the force of its impact, was a sword.

From its leather-bound hilt to its razor-sharp blade, the two-handed broadsword radiated a near-tangible air of lethality.

'_I ain't no expert on swords, but_ **damn** _that's a fine piece a' steel there,'_ Faith thought as she admired the weapon.

Cocking her head to one side, Faith rubbed her hands together, flexed her fingers then waggled them, and reached out for the sword's hilt. Grasping it, she tugged to try and pull the sword free.

The sword refused to move.

Releasing the hilt, Faith spat on her palms and rubbed her hands together again, then gripped the sword's hilt once more and pulled with all her strength, straining mightily.

Still the sword refused to move.

"What the _fuck…?"_ Faith grumbled. "What _is_ this thing?"

"It is Excalibur," Bob said from behind her, and the Slayer jumped like a scalded cat.

"Shit, I forgot you were there," she muttered. Releasing her grip on Excalibur's hilt, she turned to face the T-800. "Okay, Bob," Faith began, spreading her arms wide, "what am I s'posed ta learn from this?"

"Dey are coming," said Bob.

"Who's 'they'?"

"Dey will be allies – but only if you allow dem to be. Dey can be trusted. You must watch for dem. Excalibur's fall in flames is dere symbol. You will need dem at your side in de war to come."

"You're tellin' me that I'm s'posed ta watch out for a buncha folks who've got a picture of Excalibur – _the_ Excalibur – fallin' outta the freakin' _sky_ while surrounded by _fire_, and then team up with them to fight a war?" Faith asked incredulously.

"Correct."

Faith shook her head and moodily kicked the ground, knocking a small piece of turf flying over the edge of the cliff. "I know Tee said these Slayer dreams were cryptic, but _this_ is fuckin' loco," she growled under her breath.

"Yes," Bob agreed, and Faith could swear she heard a note of sympathetic fellow-feeling in his voice as he moved to stand beside her. "Howefer, dat is all I am allowed to tell you. Sorry."

Faith blew out a deep breath. "Your bosses are kinda dicks, huh?" she said quietly, and gave Bob a kindly pat on the shoulder.

"You might say dat. I coult not possibly comment."

Faith smirked. "Y'know what? You're awright, Bob."

Slayer and Terminator exchanged a brief glance, then turned back to face the horizon together.

"It is time," Bob quietly announced. "Are you ready?"

With that, there was a flash of blazing white light which seemed to fill the whole world.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Disclaimer:** 'Dirty Town' was performed by the fictional rock 'n' roll band Strange Fruit in the film 'Still Crazy'. To the best of my knowledge, the copyright to 'Dirty Town' (and 'Still Crazy' for that matter) belongs to Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc.

**A/N:** Many thanks everyone who's left reviews – they really make the effort feel worth it, and that inspires me on to greater efforts.

Chapter Seven is already in the works and well under way. These scenes ended up growing longer than I'd anticipated: however, they seemed to fit together rather well as a unit, so I decided to post them now as a chapter of their own, rather than waiting to post one monster chapter that would probably have been a bit unwieldy.

I'll be back,

El ;)


	7. Chapter 7

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**No Fate: The Collected Data Files**

**Chapter Seven – Free Spirits Part Five**

**Sunday 1st June 1997**

**800 Hurd Way, Sunnydale, CA**

Faith's eyes snapped open.

Fingers of red pre-dawn sunlight filtered through the gap in her bedroom's curtains. The Terminator still stood at the foot of her bed. His gaze continued to rotate through the exact same circuit as it had the night before; otherwise, he stood perfectly still, the Winchester resting on his shoulder. Weird and wonderful shadows shifted and flickered across the wall opposite the window in response to the Terminator's every move and the oncoming sun.

Faith blinked, then looked the Terminator over. His left optical receptor and right hand were still exposed, but lines of shiny pink and new skin now criss-crossed his face and left bicep beneath the rows of staples, marking where some of his skin sheath's injuries newly healed over. Not quite as much of his right forearm was as exposed as it had before, either: the flesh was slowly growing back over it.

Moving her hand beneath the covers, Faith gingerly tapped her chest with a single fingertip. When no pain came from her ribs, she patted herself with her whole hand, then finally pressed down hard.

Still she felt nothing.

Faith's lips curved into a satisfied smile. "Sweet," she whispered to herself, then met the Terminator's gaze. "Morning, Tee. How's things?"

The Terminator paused, staring her squarely in the eye and looking thoughtful. "I am fine," he finally said.

"How's your skin comin' along?"

"I estimate it will take another sixty-five hours before my skin sheath sufficiently regrows to camouflage my right hand. It will take approximately eight days before my new pseudo-iris has grown."

Faith nodded. "No other problems?"

"None."

"Cool."

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

Tony DiNozzo was startled into wakefulness by the unmistakeable sound of an electric power-shower on full blast.

Blearily blinking, Tony peered at the digital alarm clock on the nightstand by his bed: much to his disgust, the clock read **'5:41'**.

"This is _way_ too early in the morning for anyone to be up," Tony grumbled sleepily, rolling over in his bed and pulling his pillow over his head, futilely trying to block out the sound.

It was at that point that Faith began singing. Loud though the shower was, she nevertheless made herself heard above the roaring spray of water as she enthusiastically whooped out the lyrics:

"_Ruuuule Britannia, marmalade and jam!_

_Five Chinese firecrackers up your asshole,_

_Bam, bam, bam, bam, bam!"_

"Oh, _god…"_ Tony groaned from beneath his pillow. "Boss, there is no _way_ Lehane is human – only a sadistic inhuman fiend in disguise would _ever_ voluntarily wake up this early in the morning without the building being on fire…"

"Come again, DiNozzo?"

Poking his head out from beneath the bedclothes, Tony saw that Gibbs' bed was empty – in fact, it had even been immaculately remade, the edges razor-sharp and the creases 'just so'. Squinting and tilting his head further up, he saw Gibbs, fully dressed, sitting in the room's armchair, his folder of case notes in his lap, a pen in his hand and a steaming mug of coffee resting on the bureau within his easy reach.

"_Inflammation of the foreskin reminds me of your smile,"_ Faith hollered, starting a fresh song,

"_I've had balanital cancroids for quite a little while._

_I gave my heart to NSU that lovely night in June._

_I ache for you, my darling, and I hope you'll get well soon."_

"Uh… nothing, Boss!" Tony quickly replied, instantly going from half-asleep to full wakefulness. "Just talking complete and total nonsense in my sleep, is all."

"_My penile warts, your herpes, my syphilitic sore,_

_Your monilial infection – how I miss you more and more!_

_Your dobies itch my scrum-pox. Ah, lovely gonorrhoea!_

_At least we both were lying when we said that we were clear."_

"Good," Gibbs said, still not looking at Tony, then reached for his coffee to take a sip. "'Cause it makes a nice change to finally meet a kid who gets up as early in the morning as I did back in the Corps, _and_ appreciates classics like Monty Python. There might be hope for her generation yet."

"_Our syphilitic kisses sealed the secret of our tryst._

_You gave me scrotal pustules with a quick flick of your wrist._

_Your trichovaginitis sent shivers down my spine._

_I got snail tracks in my anus when your spirochetes met mine."_

"Uh, i-if you say so, Boss," Tony stammered, then began to burrow back under his sheets.

"_Gonococcal urethritis, streptococcal balanitis,_

_Meningomyelitis, diplococcal catholitis,_

_Epidydimitis, interstitial keratitis,_

_Syphilitic coronitis, and anterior ureitis."_

"Hey – what d'you think you're doing, DiNozzo?" Gibbs demanded.

"_My clapped-out genitalia is not so bad for me_

_As the complete and utter failure every time I try to pee._

_My doctor says my buboes are the worst he's ever seen._

_My scrotum's painted orange and my balls are turning green."_

"Uh… I figured I'd get some more sleep?" Tony said plaintively, a sinking feeling knotting his belly. "Seein' how I had such a late night an' all…"

"_My heart is very tender though my parts are awful raw._

_You might have been infected, but you never were a bore._

_I'm dying from your love, my love. I'm your spirochetal clown._

_I've left my body to science, but I'm afraid they've turned it down."_

"Well, you figured wrong, DiNozzo," Gibbs told him. "Get your ass outta bed, we got a lot of work to do today."

"_Gonococcal urethritis, streptococcal balanitis,_

_Meningomyelitis, diplococcal catholitis,_

_Epidydimitis, interstitial keratitis,_

_Syphilitic coronitis, and anterior ureitis!"_

Tony groaned and threw back the covers. "So much for nice long Sunday lay-ins," he sighed, rubbing sleep sand from his eyes as, relentless and unstoppable, for better or for worse, Faith sang happily onwards, belting out a third ditty:

"_Roland was a warrior from the Land of the Midnight Sun,_

_With a Thompson gun for hire, fighting to be done._

_The deal was made in Denmark on a dark and stormy day_

_So he set off for Biafra, to join the bloody fray._

_Through Sixty-Six and -Seven they fought the Congo War_

_Fingers on their triggers, knee-deep in gore_

_For days and nights they battled the Bantu to their knees_

_They killed to earn their living, and to help out the Congolese_

_His comrades fought beside him – van Owen and the rest_

_But of all the Thompson gunners, Roland was the best_

_So the CIA decided they wanted Roland dead_

_That son-of-a-bitch van Owen blew off Roland's head…"_

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**The Magic Box, Sunnydale, CA**

A convoy of six unmarked camouflage green-and-black Humvees broke ranks and pulled up to surround the crashed truck and block off both ends of the street. Moving with an almost eerie precision and synchronicity, two dozen heavily armed Initiative commandos clad in black BDUs and balaclavas clambered down from the Hummers and swarmed around the truck.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

Crouched over the bulky body sprawled next to the truck's cab, Captain Riley Finn ruefully shook his head to himself. Candy was definitely dead.

"Sir!" one of the other commandos shouted. "We got HST remains over here!"

Straightening up, Finn jogged over to where the commando squatted. "What've we got, Kerner?" Finn asked.

"Ash, sir – looks like some haemovores were here," Staff Sergeant Kerner replied. Reaching into a pouch on his webbing, he withdrew an evidence jar; opening it, he scraped a sample of the ash into the jar then sealed it again. "One here, another there—" he pointed for emphasis, "—an' I'm pretty sure that used to be a third, over by the tailgate."

"Looks like they had a firefight, too," Finn mused aloud, considering the abandoned CAR-15 and spent shell casings littering the ground nearby.

"Yes, sir. And I can't be sure 'til we run the numbers, sir, but I'm pretty sure that's one of our weapons," Kerner said.

Finn nodded. "I guess they must've looted the shipment."

"Sir! Got more shell casings over here," reported another commando, crouching near the third little heap of ashes and a Remington 870. "Looks like 10-gauge shells. Musta been some kinda double cross, I guess. This one musta been shooting at the others."

Frowning beneath his balaclava, Finn looked up at the man. "Did you say _10_-gauge shells, Swyden?" Finn asked.

Petty Officer Second Class Swyden nodded. "Yes, sir."

"And you think they were fired from a _12_-gauge shotgun?"

"Yes, si— Umm… No… I guess… I mean…"

Finn sighed. "You know the drill, Swyden: document, bag and tag whatever you got," he ordered. "Speculate on your own time."

Somehow managing to appear sheepish despite his face being hidden, Swyden nodded. "Sir, yes, sir."

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**800 Hurd Way, Sunnydale, CA**

The bathroom door swung open and Faith stepped out, followed by a large cloud of condensation that wafted languidly along in her wake. A towel was wrapped around her torso and she'd twisted a second into a crude turban around her wet hair. A smile of blissful contentment graced her lips as she began to pad barefoot back to her room.

"Hey, Gunny," Faith called out in greeting as she spotted Gibbs emerging from the guestroom, his notes in hand. "Junior not up yet?"

Gibbs shook his head. "Nah, DiNozzo's still shakin' his first leg of the day."

Faith smirked, then closed her bedroom door behind her.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**401 Kuzui Road, Sunnydale, CA**

The downtown warehouse was old and abandoned, and had been for decades. Large holes gaped in the roof where tiles had blown off years ago, rendering the building unsafe for vampires during the daytime. Most of its windows had long ago been broken by the elements or bored children. A dead and decaying husk of a building amid several blocks full of dozens of structures in similarly dire straits, it stood empty and unloved.

A stray cat prowled through the warehouse's interior, stealthily keeping to the shadows, its nostrils filled with the scent of a rat – a young rat, well-fed and mouth-wateringly juicy. The rat in question slumbered behind the remnants of half an old packing crate, oblivious to the cat's approach. Drawing closer, closer, ever closer, the cat prepared to pounce, her whiskers quivering with anticipation and her tail twitching from side to side in excitement…

The cat froze. Her head snapped up and her eyes narrowed suspiciously, focusing on an empty patch in the middle of the warehouse floor.

A sourceless wind rose, and with it a keening whine. Discarded wrappers and pages of old newspapers blew across the concrete floor, whipping up into a small cyclone. The cat yowled and dove behind an empty oil drum to hide. The few intact windows left in the warehouse rattled in their frames as the whine intensified and a smell of ozone filled the air; a tiny spark of frigid purple light winked into existence, three feet above the floor—

And then, abruptly, it was all over.

Slow and wary, the cat poked her head out from behind the oil drum, looking this way and that.

But the warehouse was empty, completely back to normal.

And absolutely nothing whatsoever had happened.

Feeling defiant, angry and confused all at once, her instincts insisting that something much more impressive should have taken place, the cat let out a loud hiss. With that, she turned and ran off out the door, silently resolving to never return to that particular warehouse for as long as she lived.

Some things were far too unnerving, even for a cat.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**800 Hurd Way, Sunnydale, CA**

"So, what're your plans for this morning?" Gibbs asked Faith as Tony emerged from the guestroom.

Glancing around unnoticed by the others, Tony noted that Faith and the Terminator were both fully dressed by now.

With a new pair of wraparound sunglasses hiding his left optical receptor and leather gloves covering his hands, the Terminator looked passably human. He carried a box of long-stem roses tucked under his left arm; Tony took a quick glance at the weapons on the kitchen table then looked back at the cyborg. _'Think I know what he's got hidden in there…'_ Tony mused sardonically.

Faith's jacket lay across the back of a chair while she finished strapping on a shoulder holster rig, then slid a Heckler & Koch MK23 pistol into it and a couple of spare magazines into the pouches under her right armpit. Shrugging on her jacket, she opened it and slipped a pair of wooden stakes into twin loops neatly sewn into the lining, then let it fall closed again.

"I figured Tee could show me around, help me get used to where everything is in this 'burg," Faith began. "Then soon as the stores start opening, I'll go get some breakfast – we only arrived in town yesterday afternoon, so we ain't had time to go grocery shopping yet. Tee said there's a Big Kahuna Burger 'round here, an' they do a _real_ tasty burger. After that, I'll meet up with the Scooby Gang at the high school to get some up-to-date intel on the 'Dale. You still want to know the truth, Gunny?"

Gibbs nodded. "Yeah, I do."

Faith looked him over, considering him carefully. "Mind if I ask why?"

Gibbs stared at her, then slowly nodded. "A lotta folks're dying in this town, and it looks like the local LEOs are letting it happen 'cause they're real incompetent or real corrupt – or both," he said. "Plus, there's you and last night."

Faith raised an eyebrow, radiating a calm that Tony privately thought worthy of Mr Spock. "Me?"

"I don't like folks who try to gun down unarmed kids," Gibbs said bluntly. "Now I get that the truth _will_ sound nuts – I'm pretty sure there's no way I can take it to my boss, whatever it is – but if I can do something to help, then I want in."

Faith nodded back. "Fair 'nough," she conceded, then glanced over at Tony. "Hey, Junior – we're outta coffee, the Gunny an' me drank the last of it waitin' fer you."

"Oh… okay. Uh, is there anything else to drink?" Tony asked, glancing at the empty mugs sitting on the draining board by the kitchen sink.

Faith shrugged. "Well, there's always tap water – if you wanna live dangerously," she offered.

Tony grimaced. "I'll pass, thanks."

"'Kay. Anyways, Tee an' me'll just be going – feel free to put the TV on or somethin' if you want," Faith offered. "Scooby meeting's at eleven if you're sure you want the, whole an' nothin' but."

"Mind if we join you?" Gibbs asked.

"Knock yourself out," Faith told him.

"Uh, couldn't we go get somethin' to eat first?" Tony asked, trying not to sound too plaintive as his stomach noisily gurgled. "I'm _starving."_

Faith shook her head. "In this town? _Nowhere's_ open this close to sunrise."

**[—]**

"Nice place," Gibbs remarked, as the little group left the building.

"Thanks," Faith said simply.

"The rent must be huge – how'd you two even afford it?" Tony asked, fishing with all the subtlety and finesse of a Japanese supertrawler.

"Short version? Vegas," Faith replied, shooting him a wicked smirk.

Tony blinked. "Huh? You mean you guys got married by Elvis on a rollercoaster or somethin'?"

Faith rolled her eyes. "Key words: fake IDs, Terminator, supercomputer fer a frickin' brain, casinos, roulette wheels, casinos going bankrupt," she succinctly explained. "An' _that's_ how come we're halfway towards bein' billionaires."

"Why only halfway?"

"That'd be 'cause the casinos we bankrupted were run by the gorram Mob. Turns out they _really_ don't like losing that much money in under twenty-four hours."

Tony winced. "I can imagine…"

"The boss-guy who ran those casinos sent a few of his boys to our hotel room," said Faith. "Me 'n' Tee overheard 'em talkin'; seems they were plannin' ta waste Tee an' then take their sweet time havin' a little 'fun' with me before they put a cap in my head." Faith grimaced at that last part.

"W-what happened then?" Tony asked quietly.

Faith shrugged. "What usually happens to anyone dumb enough to cross a Terminator – they got terminated," she quipped with a grin. "Tee kept the last one alive for a couple minutes. That was long enough for him to learn who they worked for; some dude named Victor Alliaotto."

"And then?" asked Gibbs.

Faith's grin widened. "Ol' Vicky was holed up in his penthouse suite with all kindsa fancy security systems an' two dozen bodyguards. All of 'em were experienced enforcers, an' all of 'em were packin' serious firepower. Thing is, they were up against Tee. Whadda you _think_ happened?"

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Initiative Base of Operations Echo Four, Sunnydale, CA**

"Come," Walsh called out in response to the knock at her office door.

Riley Finn entered, still clad in fatigues and webbing. A CAR-15 was slung across his back; an M203 grenade launcher was fitted beneath the carbine's barrel. An H&K Mk23 SOCOM automatic pistol was secured within the drop holster strapped to his right thigh, and his balaclava was tucked in his belt. "Director?"

"Ah, Agent Finn," Walsh acknowledged him, looking up from her monitor. "I trust you have a report on CT-421?"

"Yes, ma'am," Finn said with a nod. "We've secured the scene and I've despatched our RV to recover the vehicle, ma'am. I figured you'd want to know what happened ASAP, so I put Lieutenant Traxler in command of the crash site. Cleanup should be complete within the hour."

"What happened out there?"

"We found the truck had crashed into a storefront – some New Age hippy place called 'The Magic Box'," Finn began. "The remains of three haemovore-type HSTs were scattered around the vehicle and we found Sergeant Candy's body; given the puncture marks in his neck and his exsanguinated state, we're pretty sure they killed him. There was a broken whiskey bottle, too, but very little spilled whiskey; the HSTs musta crashed the truck while drunk or something."

Walsh looked intrigued. "The haemovores can become inebriated? How very interesting… please continue, Agent Finn."

"Yes, ma'am. We also found that the cargo had been tampered with, the Magic Box had been looted and vandalised, and the storefronts across the street had been shot up. Going by the distribution of shell casings by the truck, it looks like the HSTs used a CAR-15 to shoot those windows out – our best guess is it was for a bet or for fun or something like that."

"What destroyed the HSTs?" Walsh asked. "Was it the result of a falling out?"

Finn shook his head. "No, ma'am, I don't think so. We found evidence of a firefight – it looks like the haemovores used a Remington 870 shotgun and the same CAR-15 they shot the windows out with. We also found _these_—" Pausing, Finn delved into one of his webbing pouches and pulled out three small plastic evidence jars; each contained a spent shell casing.

Walsh looked decidedly unimpressed. "What is their significance?" she asked.

"Ma'am, these are from a 10-gauge shotgun loaded with buckshot," Finn explained. "We don't have any records of any Sunnydale residents receiving a license to own a firearm in that calibre; however, according to Major Simmons' investigation in Boston, Hostile 405 stole a sawn-off shotgun chambered for 10-gauge rounds when he first showed up in Boston."

"And Hostile 405 is now in Sunnydale," Walsh realised. "You believe he destroyed the haemovores?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Finn. "My best guess as to what happened last night is this: the haemovores attacked Sergeant Candy, drained him, and took his vehicle for a joyride. Because they were under the influence, they wound up crashing the truck; they then decided to loot the truck and the store they'd hit. Going by the debris we found, they smashed anything they didn't want.

"When the HSTs found the weapons in our shipment, they shot up the stores across the street with a CAR-15. The sound of the gunfire must have attracted Hostile 405; the four HSTs engaged each other in a firefight, and 405 destroyed the haemovores.

"When we first found Candy's truck, the police scanner was active; I'm guessing that was Hostile 405's doing. He must've switched it on and overheard the local police department discussing Hostile 516; that would explain how he knew where to find her."

Walsh nodded. "It certainly sounds plausible," she admitted. "How much of the shipment did we lose?"

"Uh, the photocopier, the computer peripherals and a lot of the scientific equipment were destroyed, either during the crash or by the HSTs," said Finn. "And, ah… several weapons are missing, ma'am. I'm guessing Hostile 405 took those."

"How many weapons, and what kind?" Walsh demanded.

Finn reached into a webbing pouch, pulled out a notebook and flipped it open. "One M240 general-purpose machinegun," he read off, "one M32 rotary drum-fed grenade launcher, one M82A1 Barrett sniper rifle, one CAR-15, two Heckler & Koch MK23 automatics, and plenty of ammunition for all of them – an even mix of ball, tracer and armour-piercing cartridges, coming to a total of approximately three thousand rounds in various calibres and forty M433 HEDP grenades. A sea bag was taken – probably to carry all the weapons and ammo in – along with several pistol holsters, rifle slings and cleaning kits. And, um… some explosives are missing, too."

"Tell me about the explosives," Walsh said coldly.

"Uh, well, the full total comes to two dozen radio detonators, two dozen time fuses with corresponding blasting caps, five hundred feet of detonating cord, four Claymore mines… and forty pounds of RDX," Finn admitted, looking decidedly uncomfortable as he shut the notebook and pocketed it.

Ten seconds ticked past in complete silence.

"RDX," Walsh finally repeated in a flat tone of voice.

"Yes, ma'am."

"One of the explosive charges that the British developed during World War Two."

"Er, yes, ma'am."

"The charge that got its name because the research department that developed it was blown to smithereens due to the charge's volatility and destructive force – _that_ RDX."

Finn tried not to cringe too visibly. "Yes, ma'am."

Walsh sighed. "Do you have _any_ idea how many city blocks you can level with forty pounds of RDX, Agent Finn?"

"I'd have to guess at least five or maybe six, ma'am – at a conservative estimate."

Reaching up, Walsh pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger as she closed her eyes. "Agent Finn… you're dismissed."

"Yes, ma'am!" Snapping to attention and slamming his right heel against the floor, Finn about-turned and made his escape as quickly as he could.

At that moment, the office intercom buzzed. Walsh opened her eyes again and removed her hand from her face, then picked up the handset on her desk. "Yes?"

_"Director, this is Sergeant Cragg. Ma'am, Senator Kinsey just called – he wants to meet you, this afternoon, in Los Angeles. He says it's urgent."_

Walsh sighed. "Where and when?" she asked.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Big Kahuna Burger, Sunnydale, CA**

"Okay," Faith said, thoughtfully perusing the menu above the counter. "Give me… nine hamburgers, eight helpings of fries, two bottles of tomato sauce and four jumbo 'shakes."

The cashier nodded, wide-eyed in surprise and awe. "Very good, ma'am – that'll be thirty-three dollars and—"

"Hold up a sec, that's not everything yet," Faith interrupted, smiling politely, then turned to Gibbs and Tony. "Now, what're you guys having?"

Tony gaped at Faith in naked shock, his jaw dropping. Beside him, Gibbs slowly blinked, his eyebrows quirking upwards ever-so-slightly for a second or two before the faint ghost of an amused smile appeared on his lips.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**The Magic Box, Sunnydale, CA**

The large unmarked flat-bed tow truck halted next to the Magic Box. Slamming the tow truck into reverse, the driver began to carefully back it up to the wrecked truck; an Initiative commando waved to guide the tow truck's driver in safely.

At last, the tow truck driver applied the handbrake. Commandos ran back and forth, attaching the tow truck's winch cable to the wreck.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Big Kahuna Burger, Sunnydale, CA**

With one final drawn-out slurp, Faith's straw finally captured the last few drops of milkshake hiding in the bottom of her cup. Setting it aside, Faith pulled a napkin from her jacket pocket and dabbed at her lips, then sat back in her chair and released a long and loud satisfied-sounding belch that made a nearby window rattle gently in its frame. _"Damn_, I needed that. Healing cracked ribs overnight really takes it outta ya."

Seated across the table from the Slayer, Tony gave her a disgusted look, then glanced down at his own half-empty plate and shoved it away.

Faith cocked an eyebrow. "You okay there, Junior?" she asked.

"Think I just lost my appetite," Tony mumbled.

Faith shrugged. "Waste not, want not," she said calmly, then turned to Gibbs. "Hey, Gunny?"

Gibbs looked over, coolly meeting her gaze.

Faith jerked her head at Tony's abandoned plate. "Wanna split Junior's fries with me?" she suggested.

Gibbs mulled the idea over for a moment, then shrugged. "Okay."

Incredulous, Tony looked on as they divided his leftover chips evenly between them, and shook his head. "You two are _impossible,"_ he muttered, then glanced over at the Terminator. "Uh… you not hungry, Mr Harris?"

"No," said the Terminator.

"Tee don't need to eat: he's nuclear," Faith said in an off-handed manner.

Glancing from the Terminator to Faith and back again, Tony gulped.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Sunnydale City Hall, Sunnydale, CA**

Muffled sounds penetrated the thick walls and sturdy door of Mayor Wilkins' office. They barely intruded on the peace and quiet of the corridors running past the sealed office; nevertheless, the pair of vampire guards stationed immediately outside exchanged uncomfortable glances.

One of the vampires scratched his jaw. "Hey, Frank?" he said.

"Yeah, George?"

George jerked his head down the corridor. "You wanna take a break an' go grab a cup of coffee from the vending machine? Hizzoner sounds pretty—" An inhumanly high-pitched scream interrupted him, followed by a half-gurgling, half-bubbling sound. "—uh, _busy_ with that Wolfram & Hart guy, an' no one's gonna be dumb enough to interrupt him."

Frank considered this offer. On the one hand, it meant leaving his post and potentially getting into trouble. On the other hand, it meant getting away from the stomach-wrenching noises.

"C'mon, Frank," George pleaded. "Y'know those two secretaries in Citizens' Advice? They're real sweet on us, I _know_ it – they might let us have a little blood for stirring in the coffees, add a bit of flavour."

There was a loud _thud!_ as something – or some_one_ – slammed hard against the office door and left a small dent. Shortly afterwards, it was followed by a sound like the biggest newspaper in the universe being torn in half.

"Yeah, okay, that sounds good to me," Frank finally replied, shuddering.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Disclaimer:** "The Medical Love Song" was perhaps most famously sung by Graham Chapman, and is from "Monty Python's Contractual Obligation Album". So far as I know, the Monty Python team own the copyright to it.

"Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner" was written by Warren Zevon, and released by Asylum Records. (I'm guessing that one, the other or both of them own the copyright.)

The origins of "Rule Britannia (Marmalade and Jam)" are unknown to me, but I'd be very surprised if it's ever been copyrighted.

**Historical Note:** Part of the account Walsh gives of the origins of the name of RDX (namely the destruction of the research department that developed it) is in fact an urban legend. However, like the best of such legends, it is quite widespread and popular, and quite a few otherwise well-informed individuals have been known to mistake it for historical fact, so I've chosen to include it here.

**A/N:** My apologies for the delay in posting, and for the brevity of this chapter. Chapter Eight is already a work-in-progress, though, and with any luck will be posted before the end of the month.

Many thanks to everyone on TtH and FFN who's reviewed: I treasure each and every one of them. Please keep them coming…

I'll be back,

El ;)


	8. Chapter 8

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**No Fate: The Collected Data Files**

**Chapter Eight – Free Spirits Part Six**

**Sunday 1st June 1997**

**Sunnydale High School, Sunnydale, CA**

The double doors swung open, and four figures strode through into the spacious library beyond.

A hush fell over three of the four teenagers seated around the library's main table, their conversation coming to an abrupt and sudden end as their gaze was drawn to the newcomers. Jonathan and Andrew's eyes were wide, the latter's jaw dropping; and despite his involvement with the previous evening's events, Warren still couldn't quite keep an awestruck expression from his face.

By contrast, Oz remained looking as calm as ever as he casually glanced over to the main entrance.

"Oh. My. _God!"_ Andrew's high-pitched squeak shattered the silence. "It's really… _her._ The Slayer of Vampyres is _here_, walking among us!"

"This has got to be _the_ coolest thing I've ever seen," Jonathan breathed, shaking his head as he repeatedly looked from Faith to the Terminator and back again.

"_Tell_ me about it," Warren said, grinning as he clapped Jonathan on the shoulder.

Seated off to one side where he'd been watching the other three deep in discussion, Oz favoured the newcomers with a friendly nod. "Hey," he said, getting up and walking over. "Welcome to Scooby Central."

"Uh… thanks," Faith said.

"Oz," Oz said simply by way of introduction, and proffered his hand. "I'm a werewolf."

Faith shook it. "Faith, the Vampire Slayer," she replied. "Werewolf, huh? Cool. Was wonderin' why you kept pingin' on the ol' Slaydar."

"Yeah, that's kind of a long story—" Warren began, as he closed his laptop and pushed it aside.

"I got bit," Oz interrupted as he released Faith's hand.

"Maybe not that long," Warren conceded, nervously smiling at Faith.

"Umm… th-that's okay, though, right?" Jonathan stammered. "I-I mean… Oz being a werewolf an' all? He locks himself up every full moon an' stuff so he doesn't, y'know, eat anyone or-or stuff like that…"

"Five by five with me," Faith said with an easy grin. "But if ya go humpin' my leg when it's _that_ night a' the month, I'll throw you in a tub with a shitload of flea powder an' give your wolfy side a real long bath."

Oz gave her a small smile and a slight nod. "Fair enough."

Andrew's grin was so wide by now that it was threatening to remove the top of his head. "This is so awesome!" he finally gushed in excitement. "The Slayer and the Terminator, guys! This has to be the _coolest_ superhero team-up _ever!"_

"Yeah, totally," Warren agreed. "I mean, this is, like, _way_ better than the Superman and Batman team-ups, or Green Lantern and Flash—"

"Uh, which Green Lantern and Flash?" Jonathan asked, honestly curious. "Hal Jordan and Barry Allen, or Hal and Wally West, or Kyle Rayner and Wally—?"

Warren rolled his eyes: "Any combination, dude; hell, _every_ combination – who frickin' cares, _these_ guys beat 'em _all!"_ he declared, waving at Faith and the Terminator.

"It's the look on their little faces I like best, Boss," Tony muttered _sotto voce_, leaning over to Gibbs.

Gibbs smirked and gave a surreptitious nod, not taking his eyes off the sight before them. "Yeah… they don't know whether to laugh or cry or wet their pants," he quietly agreed.

"So… you're Xander Harris, right?" Oz asked the Terminator.

Expressionless, the Terminator stared down at him. "Yes," the T-890 said in a level tone of voice.

"Uh… uh… is there… y'know… a-a _shotgun_ in there?" Andrew asked, pointing at the box of long-stem roses under Xander's arm.

"Correct."

"Never leave home without one," Faith agreed. Snagging an empty chair, she turned it around and straddled it, resting her elbows on the table.

"Guns 'n' Roses, eat your heart out," Jonathan whispered, grinning.

Warren quietly chuckled. "Good one, dude."

"Hey, Gunny, Junior – c'mon, pull 'em up an' take a load off," Faith said, half-turning and waving the NCIS agents forward.

"Now," Faith began, turning back to the Scoobies, "these guys're feds – they're good guys, an' helped me out a li'l last night – an' they're kinda new to the whole supernatural thing. Plus, everything I know 'bout this town's outta date by more'n half a year. Think you guys can fix that?" she asked.

The Scooby Gang exchanged glances.

"Umm… Oz? You wanna do 'The Speech'?" Warren asked, sounding hopeful.

Oz shrugged, then turned to face his audience. "The world is older than you know…" he began to recite.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Lowell House, UCS Campus / Initiative Base of Operations Echo Four, Sunnydale, CA**

The floor-to-ceiling mirror slid smoothly aside to reveal the lift concealed within, and Lieutenant Forrest Gates of the US Navy stepped inside, still casually dressed in jeans, trainers, and a button-down shirt. Pressing one of the buttons, he waited as the lift's doors rumbled closed and the car descended. A few seconds later, the car came to a halt and the doors slid open once more.

Gates stepped out into the busily bustling main area of the base, calmly exchanging friendly nods with a few commandos as they passed by, some on foot and others riding in one of the base's golf carts. He glanced into the pit, and noted a slender tentacle limply waving out of it while a couple of the base's scientists studied it.

"Hey, Forrest!"

Gates' head snapped around, and a broad grin spread across his face. "Righ!" he called out. "How's things?"

Still clad in black fatigues and full combat gear with his CAR-15/M203 combination strapped across his back, Finn shrugged as he approached Gates. "Well, Walsh has gone to L.A. – got a meeting with Kinsey about something or other – and there's a few more HSTs in town," the former man said.

"Oh, yeah?" Gates asked, intrigued. "Anything interesting?"

Finn nodded as they fell into step together, heading off into the base's corridors. "Yeah, there's a new Ess-type, Hostile 516 – arrived only last night."

Gates raised a quizzical eyebrow, surprised. "No shit?"

"No shit," Finn promised. "This Ess-type's got itself a buddy, too, Hostile 405 – it used to be the Harris kid that hung out with Hostile 2. 405 and 516 got into a big shootout with the local cops last night – 405 got hosed down _big-time_, musta been hit with over a couple hundred rounds, but that didn't slow it down any."

Gates shook his head. "Man, sounds like that thing's gonna be a cast-iron _bitch_ to put down."

"Yeah, _tell_ me about it," Finn sighed. "We had a supply shipment attacked last night, too – haemovore attack. Lost the driver, and some of the shipment."

"Who's the KIA?"

"Candy."

Gates snorted contemptuously. "That dumbass hick? No big loss."

"Yeah, but the paperwork's gonna be a pain in the ass. And the HSTs crashed the damn truck into some New Age shit hippy store downtown; Traxler and two squads are bringing it back in now. Still, enough of that: how'd things go at Dam Neck?"

"I think I found a couple of guys who'll fit right in here," said Gates. "Two enlisted, one officer – Petty Officers Rosales and Sizemore, and Ensign McDaniel. I've served with all of them before."

"They got experience on live ops?"

"Mmm-hmm. Rosales was in Mog with the D-Boys same time I was; we wound up part of the first relief convoy that got sent in after Six-Four's crew, and we saved each other's asses a few times along the way. McDaniel was my platoon AOIC when we ran a few ops overseas for the NID – real handy in a tight spot. Sizemore was another one of my guys from back then, too."

Finn laughed. "'AOIC'? 'Assistant Officer In Command'? When're you Navy pukes gonna call the job 'second in command' like the rest of us?"

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, farmboy," Gates returned good-naturedly. "Any idea when the goddamn cells are gonna be finished so we can get it in gear?"

"Ah, call it another twelve, maybe thirteen months before we're ready for full-scale live acquisition ops," said Finn.

Gates shrugged philosophically. "Still, I guess at least when we get the green light, we'll have enough guys to hit the ground running and kick serious ass out there."

"Yeah, well, in the meantime, I'm briefing the latest batch of newbies in half an hour, and that's gonna take most of the afternoon."

Gates smirked as they approached a t-junction in the corridor. "Good luck with that, man – rather you than me."

Finn rolled his eyes as they parted ways. "Gee, thanks a _bunch…"_

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Sunnydale High School Library, Sunnydale, CA**

"Vampires," Tony said flatly, sounding a little dazed and disbelieving.

Seated across from him with her booted feet up on the library's conference table, Faith rolled her eyes and glanced up at the clock on the wall, noting that it read **'12:42'**. Xander stood silent and motionless at her shoulder, his box of roses and shotgun still tucked under his arm.

"Are you _still_ hung up on this, Junior?" Faith asked, exasperated. "I mean, _c'mon_ – you can accept Slayers an' Terminators, but not vampires an' magic?"

"Vampires," Tony repeated in the same tone of voice.

Letting out a small sigh, Gibbs lightly slapped the back of Tony's head, eliciting a startled yelp from the younger man. "Snap out of it, DiNozzo," Gibbs ordered.

"_Thank_ you, Gunny," Faith said, sounding very relived, then turned to the Scoobies. "So, let me get this straight," she said, and began counting off on her fingers:

"One Slayer's _definitely_ dead. Another Slayer's vanished off the face of the earth an' might be hurt or dead; no one knows fer sure one way or another. Two teenage witches – one of 'em a guy – who sometimes hung out with the Scoobies an' helped with the major league world-ending cases are _definitely_ dead. The big vamp with all the hair gel got turned into Mr Hyde, an' may or may not be dust in the wind by now."

Faith paused, then began counting on her other hand. "B's Watcher's in hospital, 'long with Wolverine's girlfriend. The computer teacher with the magic mojo's disappeared and _might_ be dead but no one knows fer sure 'cause there's no sign of her body. The cheerleader queen is in Japan an' there's no word on when she'll be back." Faith lowered her hands to the table. "And _you_ four are the… the _new_ Scooby Gang," she concluded. "Now, did I miss anyone or get any details wrong?"

"W-well, technically I guess Oz isn't part of the next generation of Scoobies like the rest of us," Andrew piped up, visibly excited to be making a contribution. "'Cause he's, y'know, been part of the Scoobies since, like, Buffy's birthday and the thing with the Judge and he helped build the bomb to blow the Judge up and then there was the whole 'werewolf now' thing and… and…" Running out of breath, he broke off and began gulping down deep lungfuls of air while Jonathan gave him a reassuring pat on the back.

"Uh-_huh,"_ Faith grunted, her gaze flicking from Warren to Jonathan and finally to the gasping Andrew. "Soooo… I get why Wolverine here did his solo act fer a week 'til he went on a recruitment drive; how'd _you_ three get into all this?"

The three teenage boys exchanged glances. "Uh, it kinda started with Dungeons and Dragons," Jonathan awkwardly admitted. "We, uh, w-we formed a gaming group together a couple months back…"

"Yeah, and, ah, w-we'd all kinda figured out, like, some little bits and pieces of what was going on in Sunnydale," Warren said as he took up the tale. "It was kind've like… like… umm… You know that old metaphor about an elephant surrounded by blind men?"

Tony looked puzzled. "Huh?"

"One guy thinks he's touching a pillar; another thinks he's got a dangling rope; and a third thinks he's got a fire hose – or something like that, anyway," said Gibbs. "Only they haven't got any of those things: they're all touching different parts of the same elephant."

Warren nodded, and nervously moistened his lips. "Ah, y-yeah, that's about the size of it, yeah," he said. "A-and w-we were kind of like that – we'd each seen something weird, something that got us wondering an' stuff, and… w-well, during one of our games, I-I think it was Andrew who got things rolling?"

His breath now back, Andrew nodded quickly. "Yeah, 'cause Jonathan's wizard had sent his imp to disable a booby trap, and _I_ said that a real imp could easily do it in half that time…"

"That started us talking, and we realised we were all onto the whole 'no _way_ is Sunnydale normal' thing…" said Jonathan.

"And after we put together everything we knew, we started to _really_ figure things out," Warren jumped in. "The vampires, the last principal getting eaten, the swim team, Coach Marin disappearing, the rampage of the giant naked mole rat that was addicted to cheese, the dead kids in the lockers and broom closets, Principal Snyder, that one time that blood leaked out of the school walls, Buffy, the Scoobies…"

"Then a couple weeks back we came into school and there were cops all over the place and Snyder had gone nuts and was, like, all he could talk about was how Buffy is a murderer – which we knew was so _totally_ bogus," said Jonathan. "And then we heard how, uh, how Cordelia had left the country, and Willow and Mr Giles were in hospital…"

"We didn't know what had happened to Oz – we kinda thought he was hospitalised or dead too," Warren took over. "And seeing how it looked like the whole Scooby Gang was down, dead or AWOL… well… we thought maybe _we_ could do something."

Jonathan nodded. "So, we, uh… kind of formed a team of our own."

"The Justice League of Sunnydale," Andrew said proudly. "Sworn to take up the battle against the forces of darkness, and save humanity from the hordes of daemons that seek to destroy it."

Faith did a speedy double-take. "You're _kidding."_

Warren shook his head. "Nope."

"Oh-kaaay… what made you guys so sure you were ready t' take on vamps an' demons?" Faith cautiously asked.

"We-ell, we're all pretty smart…" Warren began.

Jonathan nodded. "A-and there's a magic shop in town – a really good one, stocks plenty of good stuff for training beginners. Turns out Andrew and me have some potential for using magic."

Andrew beamed. "Last Wednesday, I summoned _two_ imps at once – that was _so_ cool!"

"And w-we're, y'know, taking it slow and careful learning this stuff, right, 'cause we don't wanna go all 'Darth Andrew' and 'Darth Jonathan' or anything like that," Jonathan continued.

"Anyway, we pooled our cash and did some research," Warren continued. "Andrew found a site online with loads of stuff about ancient weapons, and there were some really good pictures of, like, a _ton_ of different kinds of crossbows, including this real neat 'pump-action' design from the fifteenth or sixteenth century."

Andrew nodded eagerly. "We figured out how to reverse-engineer that one," he said. "After drawing up a set of plans, uh, well, we snuck in the school over the weekend to use the tools in the wood shop to mill out all of the, ah, th-the components we n-needed."

"After that, we assembled the parts, so's we'd have two of the pump-action crossbows and a bunch of spare parts, and we put together a few pistol crossbows – collapsible ones – to use as backup weapons," Jonathan took up the tale. "We also needed other weapons for vamp-busting, though, so we bought tent pegs for stakes – just as a last resort – and did some digging around in the local junkyard for stuff we could use."

"See, none of us have a lot of upper-body strength," Warren explained. "So, y'know, we figured we didn't wanna go tangling with vampires and demons up close if we could avoid it, so, ah… well, we kinda built some ranged weapons of our own from stuff out of the junkyard, so we could take 'em down safely at a distance. Well, I mean, safe for _us_, anyway, obviously not safe for the vampires and demons…"

Andrew was excitedly bouncing up and down a little in his chair by now. "Can I show 'em?" he pleaded.

Oz nodded. "Sure."

"Great!" Eagerly leaping to his feet, Andrew darted over to the weapons cabinet; opening it, he pulled out a battered old metal ammunition crate and carried it back to the table. Setting it down, he flipped open the lid.

Slayer, Terminator, and NCIS agents all peered into the crate. "Uh… what _was_ that?" Faith was the first to ask.

"_That_ was our prototype freeze ray gun," said Jonathan.

"It's the Mark One model, or FRG-1," Warren elaborated.

Andrew nodded, grinning. "We got the idea from that new movie, _Batman and Robin."_

"Oh, so it's like the one that Arnold Schwarzenegger's character used?" Tony asked.

Andrew beamed at him. "Yeah, that's it, dude. Except ours doesn't need diamonds."

Inquisitively peering at the melted and mangled object in the crate, Faith gave the gun an experimental prod, as if to check it was dead. "What happened to it?" she asked.

Jonathan winced. "It kinda caught on fire the first time we used it."

Tony snorted in barely-controlled mirth. "A _freeze ray_ gun that catches on _fire?"_

"Yeah… kind of ironic, huh?" said Warren.

"Hey, at least it worked," Jonathan protested. "See, it was our second night out on patrol," he continued, turning to face Faith and the NCIS agents, "and we saw this demon mage chick over in Northside Cemetery with, like, tentacles for hair and a tail and three, umm… _y'know_—" he blushed, and cupped his hands in front of his chest before continuing, oblivious to Faith's Cheshire Cat-worthy smirk, "—and she was raising all these dead bodies as an army of, like, zombies – _Dawn of the Dead_-style zombies, I mean, except they were controlled by magic—"

"So Warren and me started shooting at the zombies with our crossbows," Andrew butted in. "We, uh, well, we didn't really do much, actually, 'cause it's a lot harder to shoot zombies in the head than it looks in the movies, especially if you've only got crossbows and not guns…"

Warren nodded, wincing. "I think we only took down one zombie –_ maybe_ two – with the crossbows," he said. "It was kinda chaotic, and the mage was slinging fireballs at us and we were dodging and trying not to get crispy fried and the zombies were shuffling and groaning all over the place…"

"Anyway, Jon was carrying the FRG, and he took a shot at the mage: she got frozen solid in this _really_ big block of ice, just like in the movie – that was _so_ awesome," Andrew enthusiastically gushed. "And all the zombies just stopped, like, dead – as in, _completely _for-real dead this time 'cause they were cut off from the mage's power… And then the FRG caught on fire," he finished in a subdued tone of voice.

"I'm pretty sure that what caused that was the power cell must've overloaded and created a feedback loop in the firing mechanism," Jonathan said, looking doleful. "Anyway, I dropped the FRG, and we all started trying to put the fire out, but then the grass kinda caught on fire as well.

"So, we started stamping and stuff to try and put _that_ out too, 'cause it hadn't rained in, like, nearly two months, so the turf in that graveyard was _really_ dried out, and we were kinda scared the whole cemetery could go up… And then – just to make things even _worse_ – some of the _zombies_ went and caught fire…"

"Anyway, after we _finally_ got all the fires out, we had to figure out what to do about the mage," Andrew piped up. "We, uh, well, we figured that if she thawed out of the ice, she'd just pick up where she left off and the zombies would get all animated again, so… well, we figured we needed to, uh, t-to smash her. So, we grabbed what was left of the FRG – which is, uh, in the box, a-as you can see – and gave the ice block a real good whack with it, and, umm…"

"She shattered," said Warren.

Gibbs raised an eyebrow. "'Shattered'?" he asked.

Jonathan nodded very quickly. "Y-yeah. Into, like, millions of teeny-tiny pieces. Kinda gross, actually."

"So, that's the story of the FRG-1," Warren said brightly.

"We're working on a Mark Two model now," said Andrew. "That one's gonna be a _lot_ better than the FRG-1."

"Hey, considering we only spent, like, twelve bucks buying parts for the Mark One, and all the other components came out of a junkyard, I think it did pretty well," Jonathan argued.

"Dude, it caught on _fire,"_ Warren pointed out.

"But only _after_ it took out the bad guy – um, girl, I mean," Jonathan hastily amended. "And c'mon, freeze ray guns aren't supposed to be able to even _work_ in real life – but we made the Mark One operational with twelve bucks and a pile of junk that no one else wanted."

Warren shrugged. "Hey, I agree with you that it worked pretty well for that one shot, man, but it still caught on fire."

"You guys build anything else?" Faith asked.

"We thought about trying to build a flamethrower," said Warren. "But, uh… well, after how the freeze ray gun turned out, we decided we'd better not go there – we don't wanna risk blowing ourselves up or anything like that, and when we researched them we found that historically those things were pretty user-dangerous at the _best_ of times anyway."

"The invisibility ray isn't working right just yet, but I think we're _really_ close to figuring out what's wrong with it," Jonathan offered.

"Oh-_kaaaay…"_ Faith drawled. "What's the catch?"

"The ray alters the molecular structure of targeted subject to make it transparent to wavelengths in the normal visible light element of the electromagnetic spectrum," Andrew began with a bright smile. "Unfortunately, these changes also destabilise the baryonic structure of the subject, causing it to eventually break down into a very loose association of quarks that possess no remaining binding energies to hold them together anymore, which quickly leads to an irreversible and full-scale dissolution of the subject."

Faith looked blank. "Huh?"

"Anything the ray's used on starts to break down at the molecular level, and after a while an object just, uh, w-well, it basically disintegrates and turns into a puddle of orange goo," Jonathan offered.

"_Ohhh…_ gotcha," Faith said, giving him a grin and a quick thumb's-up.

Andrew pouted; Warren gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Hey, c'mon, man, ya did a good job explaining it," the older boy assured him. "You just gotta consider your audience a bit more."

"Oh, like in the Fantastic Four comics?" Andrew asked, brightening somewhat. "Like how Johnny and Ben need Sue to translate Reed's explanations all the time?"

"Yeah, kinda," Warren agreed. "Or maybe more like Jennifer Walters, back when She-Hulk was part of the team."

Faith glanced from Warren to Andrew then back again, then turned to Jonathan. "Should I be feelin' insulted or flattered by that comparison?" she asked

"Umm… She-Hulk's generally considered to be one of the all-time sexiest female comic book characters, _and_ one of the top five strongest?" Jonathan nervously offered.

"Oh, _re-e-eally…?"_ Faith playfully smirked at him.

"And, uh, sh-she's a lawyer, a really good one, so she's pretty smart – j-just not in the same league as, say, Einstein or Stephen Hawking, while Reed Richards _is."_

"So, invisibility ray – bad?" Tony asked, still looking a little puzzled.

Warren and Andrew looked at each other, then turned back to the NCIS agent. "Yeah, that's about the size of it," Warren confirmed.

Tony nodded. "Just checking. What else did you guys put together?"

"Umm… well, the rocket pack prototype hasn't been tested yet, but we're pretty sure that'll work okay – we're just erring on the side of caution with that thing 'cause, hey, we don't wanna end up extra crispy," Jonathan offered.

Tony's eyes instantly lit up with interest. "Rocket pack?" he exclaimed. "You mean like James Bond?"

"Actually, it looks more like the model used by Captain Scarlet," Warren corrected him.

"Err… who's Captain Scarlet?"

The three former Justice Leaguers stared at Tony. _"Oh,_ boy," Warren muttered under his breath.

Andrew leaned across the table and gave Tony's hand a sympathetic pat. "You poor, poor man," the blond said pityingly.

"Moving on…" Warren suggested, "We recently designed a directed energy weapon that randomly cycles to a different harmonic frequency after every shot. We call it the 'Infinity Modulator', or I-MOD. We haven't managed to get hold of any of the parts we need yet, though."

Tony frowned, puzzled. "What would you use that for?"

"Umm… we kinda got the idea after watching the new Star Trek film when it came out on video," Andrew confessed. "Y'know – _Star Trek: First Contact_?"

Jonathan nodded. "Yeah… I mean, okay, so we're pretty sure that the Borg _probably_ don't exist in this timeline, but… just in case they exist _somewhere_, like, in another reality or something… And, hey, we live on top of a Hellmouth, an interdimensional portal. Better safe than sorry, right?"

Warren snapped his fingers. "Jon, d'you remember where we put those stake launchers?" he asked.

"Uh, yeah… they should be in the weapons cabinet, second shelf from the bottom, in the MacGyver bag – y'know, the one with all the duct tape and paperclips and string and stuff in it."

"You mind grabbing them? You're nearer the cabinet."

Getting up, Jonathan shrugged. "Okay."

"Stake launchers?" Tony asked. "How do those work?"

"Well, you, uh, you strap them onto your wrists, and they're _really_ compact – if you wear a jacket or long-sleeved shirt, that'll hide them," said Warren.

Andrew nodded. "All you then have to do is flick your wrists the right way, and the launchers fire a stake – just far enough for it to drop nice and easily into your hand."

"We can't really use them all that effectively, 'cause we're not cut out to go taking on vamps in hand-to-hand and we prefer to take them down from a distance," Warren continued. "However, um, we figured that if Buffy came back or-or another Slayer turned up – y'know, someone who _can_ take vampires on pretty good up close – then, well, maybe she might find them useful," he finished awkwardly, not quite meeting Faith's gaze.

"Sounds pretty cool… mind if I give 'em a try?" Faith asked as Jonathan returned, a shoebox in his hands.

"Please – b-be our guests!" he stammered, setting down the shoebox and pulling out one of the launchers, then frowned. "Sorry, guest, singular," he quietly corrected himself.

Faith stood, shrugged off her jacket, then held out her bare left forearm. "Awright – how's it go on?"

"Uh, w-well, you, um, wrap this strap around _here_, then this one _here_…" Jonathan explained as he set about securing the first launcher in place, blushing as his fingertips brushed against Faith's skin. "We, um, w-we fitted the straps with Velcro fastenings so you can adjust it a-as needed… We also made these patches t-to cover up the, um, th-the exposed ends of the Velcro, s-so it won't stick to anything… okay. Now, um, a-as you can see, there's one launch chamber with a stake inside… I-if you raise your thumb and then flick your wrist, kinda like you're cracking a bullwhip or something—"

Faith promptly followed the instruction, and the stake shot out of the launcher; instinctively, she clenched her fist around the stake and arrested its flight.

"—then the stake shoots out like that," Jonathan continued. "There's not a lot of force behind it, though, 'cause it's only spring-loaded, b-but that makes it nice and easy to reload – just push a stake in there—"

Passing the stake in her right hand, Faith slid it back into the launcher and kept pushing until she heard a faint _click_.

"—right, like that, and the click lets you know when to stop pushing, 'cause any further back will bust the spring."

Faith nodded, then flicked her wrist again and caught the stake as it shot out. "Now that's wicked cool," she said, grinning as she slipped the stake back into the launcher. "Great work, guys," she praised, looking up at the former Leaguers.

"Ah, you're welcome," Warren told her; Jonathan nodded in agreement.

"Just as every knight always needs a sword and every Jedi always needs a lightsabre, so every Slayer always needs stakes for her Calling," Andrew said solemnly.

"Um… I guess so," Faith conceded, then glanced in the open shoebox. "Oh-kay, I'm guessin' this—" she pulled out a second launcher, "—is the twin of the one I'm wearin', but what're _these_ all about?" she asked, pulling out a pair of bulkier launchers.

"Well, those are the SL-2s, or Stake Launcher Mark Twos," Warren explained. "The one you're wearing is an SL-1."

"See, the SL-1's meant to be, um, easily concealed, f-for when you want to catch vampires off-guard," said Andrew. "That's why each SL-1 only holds one stake – any bigger and you couldn't hide it under long sleeves.

"The SL-2, on the other hand, i-is for heavier combat situations, like wh-when you attack a vampire lair or-or something like that. The drawbacks a-are you can't hide it while you're wearing it, a-and it's heavier and bulkier… you get the idea. The SL-2 has _five_ launch chambers to the SL-1's, um, one, s-so if you're wearing two SL-2s, you've got ten stakes all ready to go."

"Now, to reload the SL-2, you slip each of the fresh stakes in just like you would the SL-1," Jonathan said as he tapped one of the SL-2s that Faith held. _"However_, when you flick your wrist, the stakes _always_ emerge from the _central_ launch chamber, and a new stake slides up or down to replace it, until you run out of stakes."

"Now, we haven't field tested them yet," Warren warned Faith. "We've, uh, we've tested them in Jonathan's back yard, and unless you get some stuff like snow or demon guts or something in the mechanism, it should work just fine. We stuck one in a bucket of water then tried to fire it and it worked okay, and it even worked when we fired it while it was still submerged in the bucket, so you shouldn't have any problems if it starts raining or anything, although you might wanna check the spring afterwards to make sure it hasn't corroded – it'll need replacing if that happens."

"Keep 'em clean of demon guts, gotcha," Faith replied as she strapped the second SL-1 into place, then slipped her jacket back on. She flicked both her wrists, neatly caught both stakes as they shot out of the launchers, twirled the stakes around her fingers, then shook her left arm to make her jacket's sleeve fall back far enough to expose the SL-1 strapped to her arm. Holding the stake in her right hand by the tip, Faith slid it into the SL-1 on her left arm until it clicked into place, then repeated to procedure to load the stake in her left hand into the SL-1 on her right arm. With one final shake of her arms, her jacket sleeves dropped back into place, concealing both launchers, the entire reloading procedure having taken only a scant few seconds.

"Wow," Andrew breathed.

Jonathan nodded. "Yeah."

"You guys mind if I borrow these?" Faith asked.

"Heck, no, keep 'em," Warren insisted. "We made them for a Slayer; they're yours."

"Wicked – thanks, guys. Umm… is there any chance you could maybe figure out how t' build a lightsabre?" Faith asked, looking both eager and a little nervous. "I kind of always wanted a real one, and seems like you guys might actually be able t' pull it off…"

The former Leaguers exchanged glances, their eyes lighting up as they considered the technological challenge they'd just been presented with. "Umm… we'll have to get back to you on that one," Warren eventually said. "Right now I'm gonna say that's a definite 'maybe'."

"Man… it sure would be cool to build something like that," Andrew said wistfully.

Jonathan nodded, a big broad grin upon his face. "Yeah… and let's face it, a Slayer's gotta be as close as you can get to a Jedi in real life, so a Slayer packing a lightsabre would be totally _awesome_ to see in action."

"Hey, you guys build me a working lightsabre an' you can bring a buncha cameras along t' get me on video kicking butt with it if you want," Faith vowed.

"Talking of cameras," Warren said as he began rummaging around in his laptop bag, "we've got plans to eventually set up a network of surveillance cameras around the town – especially in the alleyways and cemeteries – but until we can get enough cash to afford that, we've built _this_ to help us detect vamps at a distance…" So saying, he withdrew a compact device in a plain grey plastic case, roughly the size of a PDA.

Tony stared at the device. "You made a… tricorder?"

"It's not _exactly_ a tricorder," Warren explained: flipping open a cover, he exposed a small screen, then began tapping at the controls beneath it. "But we did call it that 'cause it can do some of the same stuff… here we go."

Turning the device around, Warren held it out so its screen could be more easily viewed. Faith and the NCIS agents leaned over a little, peering at the image on the screen.

"As you can see here, _these_ dots here are us," Warren explained, tapping the screen with a small plastic stylus. "The tricorder's set to motion tracking right now, and we're moving just enough from our breathing – or, uh, simulated breathing, in Xander's case – to show up.

"Now, if I do _this_—" Warren typed a sequence into the tricorder's buttons, "—it changes colours to show who's what. If you look at the little key on the side of the screen _here_, you'll see that it's showing us there's six humans, one superhuman – that'll be Faith 'cause, hey, Slayer and all – and one cyborg, which is Xander."

"How's it tell the difference?" Faith asked.

"Living beings – humans, animals, plants, fish, demons, all of 'em – generate low-level bio-electrical fields; that's what the tricorder's picking up," Jonathan explained. "We can also scan for radiation, radio signals, you name it – heck, we can even get cable TV."

"We're kinda limited in range, though," said Andrew. "The tricorder can only scan up to fifteen feet in any direction."

"Just to make data-sharing easier, it's built to interface with any TV or computer built in the last ten years or so," Warren added.

"We're currently working on an airborne version, too," said Jonathan. "We bought a little remote-controlled toy 'plane in the pawn shop over on Inferno Boulevard; if we can mount more powerful sensors with longer range aboard it, we'll be able to use that for aerial surveillance and to scout on ahead, stuff like that."

"Oh, _man_… I _so_ have to get me one of those…" Tony groaned, enviously staring at the tricorder.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Los Angeles, CA**

The restaurant was glamorous and chic, and had been hailed in several magazines as _the_ place for anyone who was anyone in L.A. to be seen to dine.

That reputation wouldn't last – there was always something newer and younger and even more exciting waiting in the wings for its chance to seize the spotlight – but for now, it took most rich and famous customers weeks to get a table. Anyone who lacked wealth or fame – or even worse, _both_ – was politely but firmly turned away.

It had taken the maître d' three minutes to find a table for Lindsey McDonald and his guest.

The first course of their lunch had arrived two minutes after that.

Taking a sip of his white wine as a waiter discretely removed their now-empty plates, Lindsey considered his companion. She was a stunningly beautiful platinum blonde woman, and wore a beige pantsuit that subtly flattered and complimented her figure, a figure he vividly recalled having been very intimately – not to mention _energetically_ – familiar with on the past occasions their paths had crossed.

"So, Lindsey," she drawled, her smoky Mississippi accent music to his ears, "to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Couldn't it just be good old-fashioned nostalgia, Brigid?" he suggested lightly. "An honest desire to see you again?"

Brigid chuckled. "I can believe you feel that way, but that's not why we're eating _here_, Tex. You want information – right?"

Lindsey inclined his head in silent acknowledgement.

Brigid shrugged. "You'll owe me. And you know what my price is."

"I can live with that," Lindsey told her, and took another sip from his glass.

"Okay. Who do you want dirt on?"

"'Them'."

Brigid frowned, puzzled, then turned her head to look at a couple seated behind her, on the far side of the restaurant, then looked back at Lindsey. "Mitchell Donald and Caitlin Theta-Smith? Don't you think going to me's kind of… _overkill_… for that sort of information?"

Lindsey shook his head. "I don't know any other names; a contact of mine only referred to 'them', then clammed up when he realised I didn't know who he was talking about."

Brigid turned very pale. "Y-you want to know about… about _them?"_ she asked, whispering the latter-most word.

"Yes. Why? Is that a problem?"

Brigid's blue eyes were huge by now; staring intently at them, Lindsey noticed a hint of an emotion he'd never seen there before:

_Terror._

"No," Brigid whispered, shaking her head emphatically as she broke out into a sweat.

"Wha—? Brigid? What's wrong?" Lindsey asked, bewildered.

"No, no, no, no, no, Lindsey – no _way,"_ Brigid insisted. "I don't wanna wind up dead. No way. Anyone but _them_ – _they_ are strictly off-limits. No one crosses _them_ and lives. I don't handle dirt on _them._ Ever. Period. Got it?"

"Brigid – if 'they' are really that bad, surely my bosses can protect you," Lindsey protested.

Brigid gave a brief hysterical laugh, attracting a number of curious and annoyed stares from the other diners. "No, Lindsey, your bosses _really_ can't," she said. "No one ever sees _them_ coming; no one really knows who _they_ are. But _they_ are dangerous, _really_ dangerous. _They_ kill anyone who crosses them, anyone who's their enemy. And I'll tell you somethin' else for nothin', Tex: _they_ make your bosses afraid. _Very_ afraid."

Lindsey shook his head. "Brigid, this is ridiculous – _no one_ scares the Wolf, the Ram and the Hart," he assured her. "Not even the Slayer scares them – hell, not even the _Alliance_ scared them back in the old days. The Alliance was the biggest threat to their plans for the world, and Holland Manners' strategy to break it up worked – hell, that's the single biggest reason why he got where he is today."

"_They_ aren't the Alliance," Brigid told him solemnly. _"They_ are new. Different. Efficient. Successful."

"But who _are_ they?" Lindsey insisted.

Brigid blew out a deep breath. "No one knows for sure. But _they_ were foreseen," she said quietly.

"By who?"

"Lokar."

"The seer?"

Brigid nodded. "In the account he wrote detailing his last vision, right before his head exploded. He saw _them_. He saw… he said he saw a sword, falling from the sky on wings of fire, turning the night into day. The sword was Excalibur."

Lindsey felt a shiver run up his spine. "Excalibur's gone," he said. "History was changed. A few archaeologists discovered a handful of clues, and some latent seers like White wrote down what they thought were stories and myths, but that's all that's left. Excalibur can't come back."

"This is nothing to do with the real Excalibur," said Brigid. "To _them_, it's just a symbol – a powerful and inspiring symbol, true, but still only an image."

Lindsey nodded, mulling this new information over. "Brigid—"

"Never contact me again, Tex," Brigid said quietly, tears forming in the corners of her eyes as she dipped her left hand into her jacket pocket to clutch a small crystalline orb hidden there. "From now on, I don't know you."

For a split-second, a dazzling flash of light filled the restaurant, and then Brigid was gone.

Lindsey sat back in his seat and sighed heavily, then waved a nearby waiter over. "Cheque, please."

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Sunnydale High School Library, Sunnydale, CA**

"So how many vamps did you guys take out, then, before Wolverine recruited you?" Faith asked.

"Uh, w-well, you g-guys already kn-know a-about the demon chick and her zombie army…" Jonathan stammered, blushing under the Slayer's gaze, "…uh, uh, we, um, Warren and Andrew dusted this one vamp we saw by the Bronze the night before that – they kept shooting at him with their crossbows as he dug himself out of his grave, and eventually one of their shots dusted him…"

"The Bronze – that's the local club you mentioned earlier, right?" Tony asked.

Jonathan nodded. "Y-yeah, that's the one."

"From Night Three onwards, we started using the 'graveside ambush' technique," said Warren. "That was, like, _way_ safer for us."

Andrew pulled a notebook out of his trouser pocket, flipped it open and consulted it. "Erm… yeah, I kept a log of the vamps we dusted… we got ten vamps on Nights Three through Six."

"And how big was the zombie army?" Faith asked.

"We, uh, we did a head count after we smashed the demon chick," said Warren, glancing at Andrew. "Umm… how many were there again?"

Andrew glanced down at his notebook. "Uh… thirty-four," he said.

"Hold on, hold on a sec," Tony interrupted. "You guys are seriously telling me that _you_ three—" he indicated the former Leaguers, "—destroyed eleven vampires, a demon with magic powers, and an army of zombies? In only _six_ nights?"

The former Leaguers exchanged glances. "Well, yeah," Warren eventually said, looking sheepish as he turned back to face Tony. "And, uh, going by Mr Giles's files, it looks like that was actually a pretty quiet week by Sunnydale standards."

"A-And it's n-not like we destroyed the _whole_ zombie army," Jonathan put in.

Andrew nodded in agreement. "Yeah, Warren and me nailed one zombie for sure, a-and _maybe_ a second. The others just, like, collapsed after they were cut off from the demon chick's power source when Jonathan froze her."

"Just to put that into perspective, Mr Giles's records show that Buffy staked an average of five or six vampires every night," Warren pointed out. "And things always got a _lot_ busier than that whenever there was an apocalypse coming up 'cause someone was trying to open the Hellmouth."

"You're really serious about that whole 'portal to hell dimensions' thing, aren't you?" Tony asked in disbelief.

Warren shrugged. "Sure. Heck, it's right underneath us," he said, randomly indicating a patch of empty floor in the middle of the library with a nod of his head.

Tony stood up and walked over to the indicated area. "What, so it's under _here?"_ he asked, bemused, tapping the toe of his shoe against the floor for emphasis.

"Umm… take a step to your left…" Warren directed. "Okay, now just a few inches forward… hold it… perfect."

"So… I'm above it now?" Tony asked.

Warren shook his head. "Nope: _now_ you're standing directly above the very _centre_ of the Hellmouth," he replied.

Tony promptly leapt to one side like a scalded cat, a worried expression on his face; Gibbs shot him an unsympathetic glance, while Faith snorted in amusement.

"The _whole_ Hellmouth is, like, a bit bigger than this town," Warren continued.

Jonathan nodded. "Yeah, Mr Giles's notes indicate that it extends as much as six hundred yards beyond Sunnydale's boundaries in some places."

"Uh… um… I'm not gonna end up growing a third eye or a tail or something, am I?" Tony nervously asked as he sat down again.

Warren shook his head. "No way, dude – the background levels of dark magic are always higher than average on a Hellmouth, but they're never _that_ high," he said confidently.

"B-Besides, a p-permanent magical transformation takes, like, a _lot_ of concentrated power," Andrew added. "That, or e-exposure to the blood of some demons – that can cause you to absorb some aspect of the demon, like powers or body parts or stuff like that."

"'Background levels'?" Faith asked, her curiosity well and truly piqued. "What, so magic's like radiation or somethin'?"

Jonathan nodded. "Kind of, yeah – just like background radiation is completely harmless to humans, so's background magic," he said. "There's a whole bunch of different kinds of magic, too – white magic and dark magic are pretty self-explanatory…"

Faith nodded. "Kinda like that Force stuff in the _Star Wars_ movies?"

Jonathan did a quick double-take, then beamed at the Slayer. "Y-yeah! Th-that's _exactly_ how they work!" he gushed. "Use too much dark magic and you, uh, well, you wind up becoming a dark mage, go nuts, try to take over the world, buy a Persian cat to stroke, wear an eyepatch, get a secret island base – y'know, the full monty. Use a lot of white magic, though, and you become a major-league good guy with serious mojo up the wazoo."

"Like Yoda," Andrew said happily.

"Er… right," Jonathan said, sounding a little uncertain, before rallying and continuing: "Anyway, there's other kinds of magic, too – earth magics, which are connected to Gaia, the spirit of the planet, and stuff like that; chaos magic, which is what turned Xander into a Terminator—" the cyborg in question continued to stare levelly and impassively ahead as several pairs of eyes glanced at him, "—and, well, there's a whole bunch of other varieties that need not detain us at this juncture."

"And so you have remained attached to the Canadian consulate, as liaison to the Chicago police department," Tony muttered absently.

"Come again, DiNozzo?" Gibbs asked.

"_Due South_ reference," Faith explained. "It's a TV show 'bout a Mountie an' his wolf in Chicago. They were quoting bits of the spiel the Mountie gave ta folks to explain why he was operatin' south a' the border."

"Erm… yeah, anyway… some, uh, artefacts or phenomena exude magic, altering the background magical levels – kinda like how, say, plutonium gives off radiation," Jonathan continued.

"Hellmouths are, like, honkin' great big pits of dark magic, so there's a lot more of that stuff around than there is usually. It makes casting spells using dark magic a _lot_ easier, while spells using white magic are really hard to cast. One of the reasons Andrew and me are being so careful about learning magic is 'cause anyone born and raised on a Hellmouth – like us – is statistically more likely to end up using dark magic and going nuts than most people are. Like, _nine hundred percent_ more likely.

"Some magic swords give off lots of dark magic or white magic, depending on their background; their auras can inspire your allies or scare your enemies, stuff like that, and some of them can enhance your spell casting abilities, too. There's a bunch of places around the world that're white magic hotspots – certain forests; sites of really big centuries-old battles where supernatural bad guys were beaten by supernatural good guys, like Slayers; and areas surrounding the graves of really powerful white magic users. And, umm… well, Xander's still got quite a bit of chaos magic following him around."

"Could that stuff hurt him?" Faith asked, her posture abruptly turning rigid.

Jonathan shook his head. "I c-can research it, b-but everything I-I've read suggests that's impossible," he stammered, flinching under the Slayer's suddenly intent and unwavering stare. "I, uh, I-I think it m-must be some kinda residue, left over from his transformation and the time jump. It's slowly dissipating; give it another couple weeks or so, and it should be completely gone."

Faith nodded, and visibly began to relax. "So Tee's gonna be okay?" she asked.

"He should be," Jonathan assured her. "From what I've read, it sounds like chaos magic isn't good, but it's not _bad_ either – it's about change, not _harm_."

"Wait, so _auras_ are real now?" Tony asked.

Andrew nodded. "Uh, yeah?"

"Re-e-eally," Tony drawled. "So, what's mine like?"

"Green, with lots of spiral-y orange patterns swirling and shifting around."

Tony blinked, bewildered by the boy's answer. "Annnnnd… what the hell does _that_ mean?"

Andrew shrugged. "I dunno."

"What, you mean you can't read it?"

"Hey, man, it's an aura, not a book," Andrew protested. "I've only been able to see them for, like, a couple of months now – it takes _years_ of practice to figure out what they mean."

Jonathan nodded. "Yeah, that kinda stuff's more of an art than a science. Spotting magic in an aura is a _lot_ easier, though," he said. "Chaos magic constantly changes colour; dark magic is, well, like a black shroud; and light magic's like… well, it's usually like a spider web made out of lightning bolts.

"Um, like, uh, Faith?" Jonathan gulped as the Slayer stared attentively at him, before he ploughed gamely onwards, "You're k-kinda… well, you're pretty much c-_covered_ in white magic; it's like you're wearing a second skin made out of it. I-I'm _guessing_ it's something to do with you being a Slayer… I c-could be wrong, though, b-but it's the most obvious explanation for it…"

"So… what's that mean?" Faith warily asked.

"Maybe that you're a hero?" Jonathan suggested. "Or at least, you've got the, uh, the potential to be one, a real powerful one."

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Initiative Base of Operations Echo Four, Sunnydale, CA**

The briefing room was small, bland and utilitarian, fitted out with two dozen cheap plastic folding chairs and an aluminium table. A digital projector was affixed to the ceiling and a roll-down display screen was fitted to the wall behind the table.

Twenty commandos wearing matt black camouflage fatigues currently occupied most of the chairs, while Captain Riley Finn, US Army, stood beside the table, identically clad and holding a remote control. As the instructional film came to an end, Finn hit a button on the remote: the projector shut off and the lights came up again.

"Alright, gentlemen, I hope that's given you a good idea of what we're dealing with in Sunnydale," said Finn. "I won't lie to you. It's gonna be tough. But that's why the Initiative exists – to preserve America's national security, to make the hard choices, and to neutralise any and all threats, no matter what it takes. The mission comes first for us – _always_.

"These genetic mutants we've identified represent a clear and present danger to the American way of life – and a potentially very valuable asset. The last thing we want is for the Russians or the Chinese or the Brits or the North Koreans or any other commie wimps to develop weapons from them before _we_ can.

"To that end, our job is to find out if the HSTs can be controlled and used to further America's national interests. If the HSTs can't be controlled, then they need to be destroyed, using any and all means necessary. After all, if even good old American know-how can't control these freaks, then that means nobody else has the smarts needed to weaponise them either, and we can stop worrying about a new international arms race." That garnered several mutterings and chuckles of approval from the assembled commandos; Finn grinned tightly in response.

"That's where _we_ come in," Finn continued. "As soon as this base is fully operational, we're gonna commence acquisition operations of live subjects – we've already grabbed a few corpses for the tech-geeks to play with. If it turns out that the HSTs _can_ be controlled, then we'll keep going out to grab more until we've got them all down in the cells or on dissection tables. If they can't, then we take them out – _all_ of them.

"You guys are the best and brightest that America has to offer. You were chosen from the elite units of the United States military, the envy of the civilised world, and seconded to the NID and then the Initiative as honorary federal agents. No one else on the face of this planet has the courage, the intelligence or the skill to do what it takes to get the job done – only _we_ do. Now, are there any questions?"

A commando near the front raised his hand. "What about human rights and civil liberties legislation, sir? Are they gonna be a problem for us?"

Finn shook his head, chuckling. "No, Kretchmer, we can ignore those," he assured them. "We're the Initiative – we're above the law, _especially_ all that pansy-assed tree-hugging liberal crap."

"How about civilian casualties?" asked another commando.

"Obviously don't go out of your way to kill civvies, Petrie, but if any of them happen to wind up in the crossfire, then too bad – for _them_. The brass don't have a problem with that," said Finn.

"Sir, the film mentioned groups of amateurs that fight HSTs," a third commando spoke up. "Would it be worth our while recruiting them as a force of… I dunno, call 'em specialist auxiliaries or something? Their experience could come in handy."

Finn shook his head. "Well, Reston, that idea _was_ considered, but at the end of the day it'd just be a waste of our time," Finn replied. "A well-armed and well-resourced professional military force is the only way to go. The amateurs will only just make things worse and get in the way once we get fully spun up. As soon as the geeks figure out if HSTs can be controlled or not, we'll probably get tasked to take out the amateur groups too. We want to keep knowledge of HSTs as far away from the public domain as possible, so the fewer folks who know they exist, the better.

"And here's something else to remember, guys: we commenced surveillance operations in Sunnydale back in '94, and we've built up a _real_ comprehensive picture of the situation here," Finn continued. "Ever since the amateurs' group got established back in early '96, we've noticed that a lot of their members are themselves HSTs: Summers, Rosenberg, Harris, Giles, Osbourne, Levinson, Wells, Lehane – they all clearly display non-human traits. They're not human, so they're HSTs. That makes _all_ of them – and any humans who collaborate with them, like Mears and Chase – fair game for us. They have absolutely no rights, no protection, and are threats to our country's national security. Sooner or later, they're going down, and going down _hard."_

"Uh… this might sound kinda dumb… but is there _any_ chance that the supernatural could be real after all, sir?" Petrie asked, an embarrassed grin on his face.

Laughter rippled around the room in answer to that.

"Hey, c'mon guys, I'm just playing devil's advocate, here," said Petrie.

"No, no, that's fine, Sergeant, _someone's_ gotta nut up and ask questions like that – we risk missing something important, otherwise," Finn assured him. "Anyway, the Geek Squad says that magic and all that other superstitious crap like leprechauns and Bigfoot and Dracula don't exist. Seeing how they're the ones with all the doctorates around here, I'm gonna go out on a limb here and guess they know what they're talking about." Finn grinned as another gentle ripple of laughter ran through the commandos' ranks.

"Any more questions?" Finn asked; silence and shaking heads greeted his inquiry. "No? Okay, then…" he lifted a walkie-talkie from his belt, raised it to his lips, and hit the 'send' button. "Burke? Dellario? Bring it in."

Several seconds later, the door opened and two more commandos entered, carrying a large metal ammunition crate between them. They lifted the crate high enough to set it down on the briefing room table, then left again.

"Now we get to the really _fun_ part of this briefing," Finn said with a grin, then opened the crate and lifted something out for them all to see.

The weapon was about the length of a carbine, such as the Colt M4 or the Kalashnikov AKM, but far bulkier. A black stubby box-shaped module jutted out from the right-hand side where an ejection port would have been on a conventional firearm; and instead of a flash suppressor, the barrel ended in a set of semi-transparent vane-like protuberances that converged and narrowed into a single point.

"This is the DEWS-19," Finn began. "For those of you wondering, that stands for Directed Energy Weapons System Mark 19 – and yes, it really _is_ a ray gun."

A ripple of excited muttering swept through the ranks of the assembled commandos.

"IBO Echo Seven has already deployed these in the field on live acquisition operations with great success," Finn continued. "The DEWS-19 projects a powerful electrical discharge over distances of up to twenty feet. Depending on the power setting used, it can render a target unconscious, or – in very rare cases – completely disintegrate them.

"However, we don't get everything our own way – this is _not_ a 'God Weapon', guys, so don't go getting cocky with it," Finn warned. "There are four major reasons why this is the case.

"First, in the current design, the energy cell only contains enough juice for one shot." So saying, Finn hit a catch to eject the black module and held it up for a few seconds to emphasise his point, then reinserted it as he continued:

"Second, you're restricted to engaging hostiles at almost point-blank range, so you're gonna be danger-close every time you use this thing. If you miss, odds are you won't have time to go for a backup weapon, and you _really_ don't wanna tangle with HSTs in hand-to-hand – they're way too strong and fast for that. So, make sure you always work as a team on live acquisition ops – anyone carrying a DEWS carbine is gonna need plenty of support.

"Third, you've got to wait forty-five seconds for the weapon to cool down between shots. Fire off a second shot too early and you risk it overloading, and things get _real_ messy when that happens. Two of Echo Seven's guys got electrocuted – one of them fatally – 'cause they did that, and another one received third-degree burns.

"And fourth – and most important of all – you _really_ want to avoid using the full-power setting unless you've got no other choice: Echo Seven lost a whole field team that way. They fired one of their DEWS-19s on full power and the damn thing blew up in their faces – _literally_. Echo Seven sent in another team to investigate after losing contact; all _they_ found was a smoking crater the size of Air Force One where a dozen of their guys used to be," Finn concluded. "It looks like that'll happen about half the time you use the full-power setting, so stay away from that for now unless you absolutely _have_ to crank up the juice."

One of the commandos raised his hand. "Uh, sir?"

"Yes… Romero, isn't it?" Finn asked.

"Yes, sir. Sir, you said this is the _current_ design of the DEWS-19? Does this mean that a new version's gonna get issued eventually?"

Finn nodded. "Yeah, the geeks are working on ironing out all the bugs," he said. "The Mark 20 _should_ have the exploding thing fixed, but no guarantees. Still, you shouldn't need to use anything above one-third power – that's enough to lay out an elephant." That elicited a few amused smiles from the assembled commandos. "I'm perfectly serious, guys – the Geek Squad actually tried it out on a fully-grown elephant, and that knocked it clean out," Finn said with a grin: the rest of the commandos grinned, and several of them openly chuckled.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Sunnydale High School, Sunnydale, CA**

"Do any of you know what the situation is with the local cops?" Gibbs asked.

The Scoobies exchanged glances. "Well, we always knew they seemed to take the Three Wise Monkeys approach to the vamps and all the other supernatural stuff that goes on in Sunnydale," Jonathan offered.

Warren nodded in agreement. "And with what we heard on the police band last night, it sure sounds like they know all about Slayers and what goes 'bump' in the night."

"Yeah, DiNozzo and me got the impression they were either corrupt, incompetent, or – most likely – both," said Gibbs. "What I'd like to know is who's pulling the strings and why. Xander: can you repeat that part you heard about the Mayor's involvement, please?"

Xander cocked his head to one side, glancing at Faith. The Slayer gave a slight nod in response to his unspoken query, and the Terminator's head rotated to face Gibbs, the motion an inhumanly fluid neck-swivel. For a second, the NCIS agent felt as if the cyborg was aiming at him. _'Perhaps he is,'_ Gibbs mused.

"All units, all units," Xander began to speak, in a feminine voice that was evidently not his own. "211 in progress at corner of Whedon and Third, the Cameron building. One suspect, Caucasian female, dark hair, mid-teens to early twenties, possible Slayer, treat as armed and extremely dangerous. FBI agents are on-site, SWAT is _en route_. The Mayor has been informed. Suspect is high priority; apprehend at all costs. This is a Level One directive from the Mayor's office—"

"That'll do, thank you," Gibbs told the Terminator, then looked around the table. "What can you tell me about Sunnydale's mayor? Warren?"

Warren shook his head. "Uh, sorry, Agent Gibbs: my folks only moved here last December – I'm originally from San Diego," he said. "I think his name's Winking, Wilson, something like that?"

Oz shook his head. "I don't really follow politics much – never seem to have the time."

"He first got the job sometime back in the Eighties," Jonathan offered. "I can't remember much more about him."

"His name's Richard Wilkins the Third," said Andrew. "His grandfather, Richard Wilkins, founded the town in 1898 having originally moved out west seeking gold, and was repeatedly re-elected as mayor until he retired in 1918. Wilkins' son, Richard Wilkins the Second, was mayor from 1938 to 1958. Last of all, Richard Wilkins the Third was elected back in 1978, and has been in office ever since."

Everyone stared at Andrew. Somewhere outside the building, a cricket audibly rubbed its legs together.

Andrew fidgeted nervously under the attention. "My class had to write essays on local historical figures last year as part of a Social Studies project," he confessed. "A lot of the research I did on the Wilkins family kind of… stuck."

"Have you still got your notes from that project, Andrew?" Gibbs gently asked.

Andrew nodded, blushing a little under Gibbs's scrutiny. "A-and a full bibliography – I-I can easily find all the books I referenced again, and they should all be in here—" Andrew gestured expansively around the library, "—somewhere. I'll need to go home to collect it, though."

"That sounds like something we oughta look into," Warren suggested.

"Here's a really scary thought," Faith said. "What if this Wilkins dude ain't the big boss? What if someone else is pullin' the strings?"

Jonathan shivered. "I really, _really_ hope you're wrong…"

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**The Lysander Hotel, Los Angeles, CA**

The Lysander had clearly earned its five-star rating, Walsh privately concluded as she entered the lobby. Its décor was tastefully subdued, the staff polite and efficient. Its guests consisted of CEOs, politicians, lobbyists, sales representatives, diplomats, scientists, lawyers, accountants and all manner of other professionals who had travelled there for conferences, seminars, negotiations, or lectures; clad in a sensible pale grey woollen suit and carrying her sleek black leather attaché case, Walsh fitted right in with them. A tourist trap, the Lysander was most certainly _not_.

"Professor Walsh?" came a male voice from behind her. Turning, Walsh found herself confronted by a bulky thirty-something man whose gingery hair was cropped short in a crew cut. The knockoff designer label suit that he wore didn't quite conceal the bulge of a pistol under his left armpit, and a radio earpiece was nestled in his ear; a coiled wire trailed down from the earpiece and vanished into his collar.

"Would you follow me, please?" the bodyguard asked. "Senator Kinsey is waiting for you."

"Certainly," Walsh replied, and fell into step beside him as he led her toward the stairs.

"Professor, it's so good to see you," Kinsey called out in greeting as the door to the private conference room swung open. "Thank you, Cardinale; please wait outside," he directed, glancing past Walsh at his bodyguard.

Cardinale nodded. "Yes, Senator." Seconds later, the door slid shut again with a quiet _click_.

"I understand this is an urgent matter, Senator, and not a social call?" Walsh said as she took a seat across the table from Kinsey.

"I'm afraid so," Kinsey agreed. "Professor, how long have you been the Director of Operations at IBO Echo Four?"

"Almost nineteen months now."

"And your task force has mostly performed surveillance in that time?"

Walsh nodded. "Yes, and recovered the remains of various deceased HSTs for analysis."

"Yes, of course," Kinsey muttered to himself. "And you yourself, Professor – you've made great strides in developing advanced technologies useful to the Initiative and… _other_ programs – the DEWS carbines, the sonic weapons platforms, the miniaturised headset cameras… they're all fantastic pieces of equipment. And your method for enriching those Mark 12-A nuclear warheads with naquadah was, well, quite literally a stroke of genius."

Walsh quashed the urge to sigh in exasperation. "Yes, I believe their applications are _very_ relevant to the SGC and the Future Warrior projects, among others – provided, of course, that their respective directors are willing to make use of them. And, of course, my staff and I have other irons in the fire that may bear fruit in the future."

"Very true, and I can only wish you the very best of luck with those projects. However, you haven't yet begun conducting live acquisition operations – correct?"

"Correct," Walsh agreed. "There's still a great deal of construction work that needs to be completed before the Echo Four base is fully operational. The holding facilities will be the most advanced on the planet – even moreso than those offered at Echo Seven or Area 51 – but they won't be completed until next June at the _very_ earliest."

Kinsey nodded. "Now, that's going to be a problem," he said. "I met with President Carlton yesterday evening, and… well, not to beat any further around the bush, he's displeased with your apparent lack of progress."

"'Apparent lack of'—?" Walsh repeated angrily, her temper flaring, then paused and calmed herself. "Senator," she said, "I've produced three viable weapons systems and another half-dozen pieces of equipment useful to combating HSTs _and_ the Goa'uld…"

"Professor, if I may?" Kinsey gently interrupted. "I understand that, I honestly do; I'm in your corner, here. The main problem lies with Doctor Calhoun and IBO Echo Seven – they've already begun conducting regular live acquisition operations to procure HSTs for analysis and use as test subjects and, well, to be honest, they've produced some very exciting results, have gained an incredible and unmatched level of understanding of these mutants' capabilities and weaknesses.

"Echo Four and Echo Seven were given the same budget to prepare bases and task forces suitable for combating and evaluating the HSTs," Kinsey continued. "What the President sees is that for the same money, Echo Seven has apparently made far greater progress than Echo Four."

"That's ridiculous," Walsh said dismissively. "Echo Seven took over an old Cold War bomb shelter and converted it to use for _their_ base; my people had to enter a network of caverns formed of bare rock and build Echo Four literally from scratch. Echo Seven had electrical power, running water and oxygen supplies from the outset; by contrast, we had to build all of that essential infrastructure from the ground up at Echo Four."

"Believe me, Professor, I _quite_ understand your frustrations," Kinsey said in a sympathetic tone of voice. "And I reminded the President of these details. But at the end of the day, the unavoidable fact is that he wants some kind of payoff. Calhoun has a bunch of live HST test subjects to experiment on; all _you_ have are a few corpses. You've produced some useful weapons systems and equipment, but Calhoun's projects are potentially the biggest 'game changers' on this planet since the atomic bomb."

"What exactly _is_ Samuel working on these days?" Walsh asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.

"Some sort of hermetically-sealed biological body armour, grown using what he's learned from the HSTs' genetic makeup," Kinsey said vaguely. "I'll admit I'm not too clear on the precise details of Project 400… I _do_ gather that he's been having some problems with creating a safe and reliable neural interface between the armour and the operator, but he's already laid on a demonstration of the prototype for the President and General West, and I understand they were both _very_ impressed. Professor, you must understand: it's not a question of your past successes or failures, perceived or otherwise—"

"It's the old story of _'what have you done for me today'_," Walsh interrupted.

Kinsey gave her a smile intended to convey sympathy and understanding, but ended up appearing insincere instead. "Exactly," he said.

Walsh shrugged. "With the detention facility non-operational, it would simply be too impractical – not to mention recklessly dangerous – to commence regular live acquisition operations out of Echo Four."

"Well, the President wants _some_ kind of payoff," Kinsey said with a heavy sigh. "Everything you've done so far is excellent work, Professor – but none of it's _big_ enough.

"If Project 400 succeeds, the result will be a suit of body armour that provides full-body protection and will enable a soldier to fight for up to twenty hours at a time non-stop while carrying approximately two hundred pounds of weapons and equipment; protect them completely from small arms fire, all explosive munitions short of a two thousand-pound bomb, gases, and even the radioactive fallout of nuclear weapons; _and_ will enable them to run up to ten miles an hour for up to ten hours without pause. We might get lucky, and maybe this time next year it'll turn out that Project 400 can't be made to work – but by then, it'll be too late._ That_ is what you're competing against, Professor."

"I can't just pull something equivalent to that out of my hat overnight," Walsh protested.

Kinsey nodded. "I understand… but you do need to come up with _something_, preferably before the end of the year – the sooner, the better. You need a-a-a quick-impact project, something to razzle-dazzle the President with."

Walsh barked a short laugh. "You want me to _razzle-dazzle_ the _President?"_

"You've got to," Kinsey said grimly. "Project 400 isn't the only thing Doctor Calhoun has done; he's also turned over day-to-day command of Echo Seven to Major McNamara."

"McNamara? One of _Burrell's_ golden boys?" Walsh asked incredulously.

"The very same," said Kinsey. "Since then, Echo Seven's operational tempo has gone up; they're making two or three live acquisitions on a daily basis instead of every week or two."

"Burrell's got to Calhoun somehow," Walsh insisted. "That's the only possible explanation."

"I agree. And whatever General Burrell's involved in, you can bet his old war buddy Ed Harrison's got a hand in, too."

"You know this for sure?"

"Senator Harrison was in yesterday's meeting with the President and I, along with Director Pryde," Kinsey explained. "Ed seemed _very_ proud of what McNamara's accomplished in the past month, and the President sure was impressed."

"This is _not_ what was agreed," Walsh said, half to herself. "For crying out loud, the military didn't even _want_ the Initiative anymore, not after Saigon fell and they lost the last of the funding for the BFE project. What was Director Pryde's reaction to the events at Echo Seven?"

"She protested – very vigorously and at considerable length, too – about the military essentially hijacking an NID-run program," Kinsey replied. "Believe me, she's not gonna leave _this_ one alone in a hurry – but she needs some serious ammunition to fight with. Echo Four and Echo Seven are the only two bases the Initiative program has that're geared up for live acquisitions, so that just makes you her best chance at taking back control of Echo Seven. If we fail to restore Echo Seven to NID control, there's a very real and serious chance that you might be replaced as Director of Operations at Echo Four, and the whole base handed over to military control.

"Now, McNamara's not a bad guy, and sure, okay, he's producing results that look real good on paper. But at the end of the day, he can't deliver the kind of results that _you_ can, Professor – and _those_ results are the kind that this great nation of ours _really_ needs."

Walsh sighed. "My options are pretty limited," she said frankly. "If I could get more funding and engineers, we could finish construction work on the base for Echo Four and start live acquisition operations in as little as, say, five or six months, maybe four if we were _very_ lucky – but I assume that there's no realistic chance of my obtaining those resources?"

"You assume correctly," Kinsey confirmed. "Professor, is there _nothing_ you can do? Is there… I don't know… some kind of HST variant that you _could_ hold safely with your current equipment and operational facilities, a variant that's less dangerous than most of the others?"

Walsh pondered this suggestion for a moment. "There is _one_…" she said slowly. "The 'Zee-type' HSTs are slow, not very agile at all, and display no sign of intelligence – we could probably contain those reasonably well."

Kinsey frowned. "Then… if they're so limited, how could they possibly help produce any kind of weapons system?" he asked, sounding utterly bewildered.

"Some of my personnel call the Zee-type HSTs 'zombies'," Walsh explained. "It seems they closely resemble the monsters from a film called _Night of the Living Dead_. The Zee-types apparently breed by infecting and transforming human beings: in theory, it may be possible to develop a biological weapon capable of deployment in aerosol form to induce this condition among a target group of humans or human variants, such as Jaffa."

Kinsey beamed. "That sounds ideal. If these… Zee-type HSTs, or zombies, or whatever you want to call them… can move around by themselves and spread their contagion, then we could potentially infect the entire population of any Goa'uld world identified by the SGC; and if these HSTs are _really_ that dumb, then we wouldn't have to worry about any of the infected using a ship or Stargate to leave that particular planet."

"We'd need to take some time to develop a much better understanding of how the Zee-types work, though," Walsh said cautiously. "It may yet prove to be impractical to perfect such a weapon."

"It's still a potentially game-changing weapon," Kinsey assured her. "After all, our troops won't need fancy battle armour like Project 400 if we have the ability to safely kill all our enemies over long distances, with no risk to any of our own citizens. Just the promise of such a weapons system should serve to get Harrison off our backs, and might well give Director Pryde the leverage she needs to retake control of Echo Seven. How soon can you acquire some of these… zombies?"

"My people recently got wind of a small outbreak in Arizona," said Walsh. "A field team could probably grab one or two intact and return to Sunnydale within… call it seventy-two hours at the most?"

"Well, Professor, in that case I shan't delay you any further," Kinsey said, standing and holding out his hand.

"I'll get my best people on it right away," Walsh promised as she followed suit and shook the proffered hand.

**[—]**

Ten minutes later, Walsh sat back into the plush leather upholstery in the rear of her car – a fast and powerful government saloon, fitted with concealed armour plating and driven by her bodyguard from Echo Four's military contingent, a Staff Sergeant Russell Medway who had been 'borrowed' by the NID from the US Marine Corps's Force Recon.

"Back to Sunnydale," Walsh calmly ordered, catching Medway's eye in the rear-view; he nodded in perfect silence, put the car into gear and pulled away from the Lysander Hotel as rapidly as he could manage without breaking any traffic laws.

Pulling out her mobile 'phone from her jacket pocket, Walsh flicked it open. Tapping in a number, she engaged the scrambler. "This is Walsh, authentication victor-victor-two-niner-alpha. Get me Agent Finn," she ordered the instant someone picked up at the other end.

"_Director?"_ Finn's voice came over the line a scant two seconds later.

"Agent Finn, I want you to prepare a team for deployment to Springton, Arizona," Walsh ordered. "Live acquisition; I want a Zee-type HST single sample, two if practical…"

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Sunnydale High School, Sunnydale, CA**

Faith glanced over at Gibbs. "I been meaning t' ask, Gunny – why're you and Junior here in Sunnydale? 'Cause I'm guessin' it ain't fer a team-building exercise."

Gibbs nodded. "We came here 'cause of a case," he said. "A Navy petty officer was declared MIA, and the last trace we've got of her is her credit card being used in the Ridgecrest Mall, right here in Sunnydale, on Monday the 26th. We've also got a witness who saw her checking into a hotel on the same day."

"Uh, Agent Gibbs? I _really_ hate to say this, but any time someone gets declared 'missing' in Sunnydale, odds are that supernatural bad guys are somehow involved," Warren said.

"Umm… did you say she went missing last Monday?" Jonathan asked, leaning forward in his seat.

Gibbs nodded. "Yeah, she did."

As one, the four Scoobies exchanged glances. "You guys don't think…?" Andrew asked. "I-I mean, it c-could just be a really weird coincidence…"

"Dude, there's _never_ any such thing as a coincidence on a Hellmouth," said Warren. "C'mon: I can't be the only one thinking that the Pact might be involved, right?"

Oz nodded. "Seconded."

"Thirded," said Jonathan.

"Yeah… me too," Andrew glumly agreed.

"You kids think you know who took her?" Tony asked.

Warren let out a deep breath. "The night of Sunday the 25th/Monday the 26th was when we first teamed up with Oz and got recruited into the Scoobies," he began. "We met him while running like crazy through the Blakeney Memorial Cemetery with, like, two dozen vamps on our tail; Oz was driving along in his van from his own patrol, he spotted us, pulled over and gave us a ride outta there. After we got away, we started talking and, well, here we are now.

"Those vampires were from this cult called the Blood Pact – they're a bunch of real hardcore fanatics, use a lot of dark magic, and they want to destroy the world. No one's really sure _why_ they want to do that, though, not even the Watchers' Council, and _those_ guys have been backing up Slayers – training them, arming them, providing them with intel on how to kill various demons and prevent world end-age, and stuff like that – for thousands of years.

"Anyway, while the three of us—" Warren indicated himself, Andrew and Jonathan, "—were out on patrol, we spotted a half-dozen or so members of the Pact headed for this crypt, right, and they were dressed in robes and hoods and carrying a big rolled-up carpet over their shoulders. Now, normally, that many vampires in one spot? We woulda just kept well away and stuck to looking for loners or rising fledges.

"The thing is, though, the carpet was moving." Warren paused, and nervously moistened his lips. "And, um… w-we heard, uh… screaming. _Muffled_ screaming. _Scared_ muffled screaming."

"They had someone in there," Tony breathed.

"Ya _think_, DiNozzo?" Gibbs sighed.

"Sorry, Boss."

"A-Anyway, we, uh… well, we figured we couldn't just walk away," Warren continued. "I-I mean, we _really_ don't wanna die – we don't have, y'know, death wishes or anything like that – but… I mean, we were calling ourselves the freakin' _Justice League_, y'know? And that night, then and there… it kinda stopped being just a cool name, and became… well, I guess it became something we had to live up to.

"Up until then, we'd seen a bunch of vamps, and that demon chick and her zombies, but we hadn't seen anyone in danger before… A-And we got into this gig 'cause we wanted to do the right thing, save people's lives, be heroes, all that stuff… We couldn't just leave someone to die like that, y'know?

"S-So, we followed the vamps… and hoped like hell they wouldn't notice us."

"Ballsy," Faith quietly observed. "Real ballsy, guys."

"Th-Thanks," stammered Jonathan.

"Uh, so, um, we watched the vamps go in the crypt, then we snuck up to it a-and found a window," said Warren. "They had a whole bunch of their buddies already in there, and the group we'd followed put the carpet down, cut the ropes around the ends, and unrolled it."

"They had the school's new Art teacher in there – Ms Gianetti," Jonathan chipped in.

"What happened to the _old_ Art teacher?" Tony asked.

All four Scoobies grimaced; Andrew and Jonathan in particular looked a little green around the gills.

"I _really_ don't want to know what happened to your old Art teacher, do I?" Tony realised.

"Yeah, you'll probably lose less sleep that way, man," Jonathan agreed.

Andrew nodded, trembling a little. "I keep remembering how they kept finding all the… _bits_… on the roof of the cafeteria…" he mumbled.

"So, the Pact had unrolled the carpet," Warren said quickly, and gave Andrew a comforting pat on the shoulder. "Ms Gianetti was, like, all tied up and blindfolded and gagged, and they lifted her out and laid her down on this altar they'd set up, and started chanting and drawing a circle of runes on the floor around the altar and waving incense burners and, well, lots of other stuff like that, and the leader guy – who was pretty easy to spot, 'cause he had, like, lots of gold embroidery on his robes, an-and he was giving orders and stuff like that – he pulled out this knife, a really fancy one."

"It was a sacrificial dagger, forged approximately one thousand six hundred years ago by the sorcerer Eritrius the Dangerously Unbalanced – although he preferred to be called 'Eritrius I-Just-Get-These-Headaches'," Andrew interrupted. "We, um, w-we looked it up after we met Oz a-and he showed us all Mr Giles's books on demons and stuff…"

Warren nodded. "Anyway, it didn't take the brainpower of Doctor Theopolis to work out what was going on," he continued. "We knew that charging straight in wouldn't work, so we needed a diversion, and that's where Jonathan came in with a Telekinesis spell."

"What, you just lifted your Art teacher outta there by magic?" Tony asked.

Jonathan shook his head. "No, no way, man, I'm nowhere _near_ that powerful," he said. "No, um, wh-what I _can_ do is move little stuff just a bit – enough to make a noise, anyway. I did stuff like jangle the incense burners on their chains a bit, and tug at the robes the Pact were wearing – I even tripped one guy up so he fell flat on his face and scuffed part of the magic circle; all I did was pull his shoelaces undone."

"Then, while the Pact were distracted and searching for the cause of all the noise, Andrew summoned up an imp and told it to sneak into the crypt and steal the Eritrius Dagger while their backs were turned," said Warren. "The imp snuck in and made it out with the dagger like David Niven in the Pink Panther movies; that slowed the Pact down some, 'cause they couldn't go through with the sacrifice without the dagger."

"Course, that still left the vamps in the crypt, and we needed to get past them to rescue Ms Gianetti," said Jonathan.

"C'mon, dude – show 'em your Human Torch thing," Andrew begged him, the broad grin on the former's face threatening to remove the top of his head.

Jonathan rolled his eyes. "Oh, all _right…"_ he sighed in an exaggerated hard-done-by tone. Standing up, he walked over to the middle of the library floor so the room's occupants could all easily see him.

"Okay: first, the ingredients—"

Jonathan dipped his hand into his jeans pocket and pulled out a small ziplock bag, which he held up for everyone to see.

"—Some ash, such as that left behind from a campfire or by the destruction of any common or garden vampire—"

So saying, he opened the bag, took a very small pinch of ash between his finger and thumb, then closed the bag and stuffed it back in his pocket.

"—Now a real simple little Latin phrase I learned from a translation program online, just to prime the spell: 'Ubi fumus, ibi ignis'," he recited, and then grinned broadly.

"And, last but _definitely_ not least, the trigger to kick it all into gear…" Jonathan paused, drew in a deep breath, then shouted:

"_FLAME ON!"_

The ash in his right hand ignited first, erupting into blazing golden flames which crawled down his wrist, along his arm, and over his chest in less than two seconds flat. Onwards the flames spread, shrouding Jonathan's left arm, rising upwards to completely engulf his neck and head even as they travelled lower to cover his abdomen, his loins, his legs.

"Whoa!" Tony quietly exclaimed.

Faith slowly nodded. "Ditto, man."

"See, setting yourself on fire for real by magic, without burning yourself, that'll take a _lot_ of power a-and concentration and focus," Jonathan explained. _"This_ is just a lightshow – it looks real, sounds real, even smells a little real, but, well… it's _not_ real."

Swinging her feet down from the table and vaulting out of her chair, Faith crossed over to Jonathan. Cocking her head to one side, she bit her lip, then reached out and prodded his shoulder. "Huh…" she grunted, before pulling her hand back and examining it. "No heat or nothin'…" So saying, she prodded him again. "Damn, man, that's a _real_ good spell," Faith said.

Jonathan felt his cheeks reddening, and inwardly hoped the illusory fire would hide his blush. "Uh, th-thanks," he stammered. "This is, like, _totally_ beginner's-level stuff: i-it doesn't take much power or-or concentration to get it started, and absolutely none once it _is_, um, going."

"Yeah, b-but you _invented_ th-that spell," Andrew pointed out.

Faith glanced over at Andrew as she tapped Jonathan's shoulder again. "No shit?" she said, then turned back to face Jonathan. "You didn't find this in some magic book?"

Jonathan sheepishly shook his head. "Uh, nope, I, uh, well, I studied up on the, um, th-the basic principles of spell-casting, th-then took that knowledge a-and figured out how to put this together – you don't just chant some words to make magic happen, y'see, y-you've got to do some prep-work in your mind first, learn to control your inner pool of magical power – your 'spark', so to speak – then set up a bunch of triggers in your mind; speaking the words aloud is what sets those off. To be honest, I was just curious to see if I could create a simple spell, a-and thought this would be kinda cool as, y'know, an homage to the Human Torch."

"And I'm guessin' that's how you guys cleared out the crypt?" Faith drawled as she retook her seat. "You lit up like this an' scared the vamps off?"

Warren nodded. "Yeah, that's right. The Pact ran like crazy for the other exit and Jon chased them around the graveyard for a bit. Meanwhile, Andrew and me snuck in to get Ms Gianetti, untied her, and we all ran like hell to get outta the graveyard as quickly as possible."

"Things went pretty well, actually," said Andrew. "We were, like, almost halfway to the graveyard's exit when one of the vamps managed to hide from Jonathan long enough cast 'Dispel Magic'."

"Does that do what I think it does?" Tony asked.

"Yeah – we named it after a spell from Dungeons & Dragons," Andrew told him. "The real-world version doesn't actually _have_ a name, so we've kinda got used to calling it that – it saves time. Same with, like, 'Identify' or 'Heal' or 'Detect Scrying' – alla those exist in real life, too, but they don't have proper names or anything, so we use the game names for them."

"So anyway, the Pact's Dispel Magic knocked out Jon's Illusion of Fire Armour," Warren continued. "And as the vamps now saw us as easy meat and weren't running away anymore, we had to seriously haul ass outta there… then Jon caught up with us, and Oz showed up, and—"

"So you think these 'Blood Pact' vampires grabbed Petty Officer Mulgrew to replace this teacher as a blood sacrifice?" Gibbs quietly interrupted.

Warren nodded nervously. "Uh, y-yeah."

"What makes you think that, other than the date?"

"First, like Jon said earlier, there's no such thing as a coincidence on a Hellmouth," Warren began. "Second, if she'd become vamp chow, her body woulda been found by now, and we've got a back door into the mortuary's computers and security cameras – we would've noticed her, and the last dead body that was checked in was a guy, found eleven days ago; he was part of the zombie army the demon chick raised. Third, you said this, uh, Petty Officer Mulgrew was seen checking into a hotel?"

"That's right."

"That wouldn't happen to be the Drysdale Hotel, would it?"

Gibbs stared at Warren in silence for several seconds. "It would," Gibbs finally said.

"Ms Gianetti told us that she'd been abducted half a block over from the Drysdale Hotel on the night of Sunday the 18th/Monday the 19th – a week before they tried to sacrifice her – _and_ the Blakeney Memorial Cemetery where they held the ritual is on the same block as the hotel," Warren said.

"And, um, guys?" Jonathan spoke up. "I-If the Pact really _have_ taken Petty Officer Mulgrew t-to try the spell again? We _really_ need to shut them down."

"Well, yeah, thanks for stating the obvious," Tony sighed in exasperation.

"No, no, man, you don't understand," Jonathan insisted. "Th-the spell the Pact tried to sacrifice Ms Gianetti for? That was the Rite of M'Kachen."

"And what does that do?" Gibbs asked.

"Um, w-well, _normally_ i-it summons a really, _really_ powerful demon, a greater demon. The M'Kachen will start hunting and killing humans and keep going until it's claimed ten thousand souls to sate its hunger, a-after which it, um, returns back to its home dimension – w-which is pretty bad in itself, I guess," Jonathan stammered as he extinguished his fake flames and returned to his seat.

"B-but i-if you cast the Rite on top of a-an active Hellmouth, like this one? Well… it'll open the Hellmouth right up, and allow M'Kachen's hell dimension t-to flood into _this_ one, and that, um, that'll end all life on Earth as we know it. Y-you don't even need to be close to the centre – _anywhere_ on top of the Hellmouth will do."

Nonplussed, Tony stared at Jonathan. "We just came here for a simple 'missing persons' case," Tony protested. "Now you're telling us that our case is connected to the freakin' _apocalypse?"_

"No, no, of _course_ not," Warren calmly assured him. "It's not _the_ apocalypse…"

Tony slumped. "Thank god…"

"…It's only _an_ apocalypse," Warren continued. "The original Scoobies dealt with three of those – Heck, Oz was part of the team for the last two."

"Actually, I kinda missed most of the action during the Acathla mess," Oz confessed. "What with being unconscious for some of it, and then getting treated in hospital for concussion during the rest."

"Yeah, man, but you helped build the bomb to blow up the Judge," Jonathan pointed out.

Oz inclined his head to one side. "True."

Tony shook his head. "I'm sorry – you guys are seriously discussing the end of the world like it's the – the – the _Superbowl_ or something?" he exclaimed.

The Scoobies exchanged glances. "Not really…" Warren eventually said. "That only happens once a year; this can happen more often than that… or sometimes not at all."

"Hey," Gibbs interrupted them. "These 'Blood Pact' vampires – do you know where they might have Petty Officer Mulgrew?"

"Not for sure, no," said Warren. "Last Monday, when we first teamed up with Oz, we went back in the daytime to check out the crypt the Pact used when they tried to perform the Rite of M'Kachen – it was completely empty, no sign of anything that had happened the night before."

"B-But when w-we talked to Ms Gianetti, sh-she said that when the Pact tied her up in the carpet, they didn't carry her around for very long – five, maybe ten minutes," Andrew pointed out. "Th-They must have their lair either in the cemetery or very close by. There's, um, DuVall Heights nearby – i-it's an old apartment building, been abandoned since the Sixties. Demons and vamps sometimes use it as a lair."

"Did Gianetti see anything when they were holding her?" Tony asked.

Warren shook his head. "No such luck, man – she said they kept her blindfolded the whole week she was a captive."

"She also said she heard the Pact chanting and smelled incense being burned throughout the week," Jonathan spoke up. "I'm only guessing here, but it sounds like they took a week between grabbing her and performing the ceremony 'cause they needed to cast spells and stuff to, well, t-to prepare her to serve as the sacrifice."

Faith snapped her fingers. "Wait, what about that dagger, the one the Pact tried to use for the first sacrifice – didn't you guys steal that thing?"

Andrew looked down at the tabletop, shamefaced. "Umm… I-I k-kinda dropped it while w-we were r-running to escape from the Pact…" he confessed.

"Hey, c'mon, dude – it coulda happened to anyone," Warren consoled him.

"Yeah, and besides, we're all still pretty new at this," Jonathan added. "Kyle Rayner made _way_ worse mistakes when he first got his power ring from Ganthet."

Warren nodded in agreement. "Yeah, and even Kal El of Krypton was a total klutz when _he_ first started his superheroics career."

"So, bottom line is we don't know for sure if the Pact grabbed Mulgrew or not; and even if they _did_, we don't know where they've got her or how many of them are guarding her; _and_ there's a serious risk that the world could end tonight," Tony listed off. "I miss anything, there?"

Jonathan shook his head. "Nope, that covers everything pretty well."

"Hey, Gunny – you said someone saw this Mulgrew chick checking into a hotel? Who was that?" Faith asked.

"Staff Sergeant Aaron Strous: he's a Marine MP who was passing through town, and stopped to collect his girlfriend from the Drysdale Hotel. When he returned from his leave, he heard that Mulgrew was missing, saw her picture, and called it in," Gibbs explained.

"Uh-huh," Faith nodded. "I'm guessing you guys talked to him already?"

"Yeah, in San Francisco; Strous is currently assigned to the naval base there."

"'Kay, so that's outta the way, then. You guys know if there's a demon bar in town?" Faith asked, turning to the Scoobies.

Oz nodded. "Sure, there's Willy's Alibi Room downtown."

"This 'Willy' dude – he keep track of what demons an' vamps get up to in this town?"

"Yeah, he's usually pretty good."

"Cool," Faith said, cracking her knuckles. "In _that_ case, Tee an' me'll head back to the apartment ta grab our bike an' some other stuff, then go 'introduce' ourselves an' see what we can shake outta him. Gunny, whadda you an' Junior wanna do?"

"We'll head back to your place, collect the car, then go check out the hotel," Gibbs decided. "I'd like to talk to this 'Willy', though."

"You wanna hit the bar together first, then do the hotel later?"

Gibbs slowly nodded. "Okay."

"My van's outside in the parking lot – could save some time," Oz offered.

Faith grinned at him. "Wicked."

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**A/N:** I'm dreadfully sorry for the delay in posting this, but all the dialogue took a long time to write, structure and edit. Chapter Nine is already a work-in-progress, and I hope to post it by mid-April: I promise that it will contain a little less conversation and a little more action… ;)

Many thanks to everyone on TtH and FFN who's reviewed and rec'd: I treasure each and every one of them. Please keep them coming…

I'll be back,

El ;)


	9. Chapter 9

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**No Fate: The Collected Data Files**

**Chapter Nine – Free Spirits Part Seven**

**Sunday 1st June 1997**

**800 Hurd Way, Sunnydale, CA**

"Gunny, Junior – are you guys packin' anything bigger than those Sigs from last night?" Faith asked as the two agents filed into the flat behind herself and Xander. Behind them, they heard Oz driving off in his van, heading back to the school.

Gibbs shook his head. "Nope, didn't know we'd need anything heavier."

"Okay, then you guys're gonna need these." So saying, Faith handed each NCIS agent a Sunnydale Police Department-issue riot gun.

"Um… are they _really_ necessary?" Tony asked as he checked that the chamber on his weapon was clear.

"Fer the bar? No clue, but it's a definite 'maybe'," said Faith. "Fer goin' up against these Blood Pact vamps? _Hell_ yeah_._ Buckshot to the head'll take a vamp down; trouble is, ya gotta get in fairly close, else the pellets spread too far t' do enough damage."

"Do shotguns work on demons?" Gibbs asked as he checked over his own riot gun.

"Far as I know – they've worked on alla the demons Tee an' me have run into so far," Faith agreed. "Some demons're real tough, got armoured shells an' exoskeletons an' other stuff like that for protection. Good news is, nearly all demons' eye sockets are vulnerable, an' most demons got their brains in their heads. If your first shot bounces off their chests, aim fer their eyes with your next one. I took out a Fyarl demon in Houston that way with a stake, so bullets oughta do the trick, too.

"Also, you might want t' carry these," Faith continued, picking a pair of MP5Ks out of the mess of firearms cluttering up the tabletop and holding them out. "Shotguns take a li'l while t' reload – _too_ long if you're in the middle of a fight 'gainst vamps an' demons – so it'll help if you've got some backup weapons t' switch over to.

"Now, they might not hit all that hard, but they're small, they got thirty bullets in each mag, and you can go rock 'n' roll with them an' put all thirty rounds into a target real quick. You won't be able t' dust a vamp with these things, but you can shoot their kneecaps out an' slow 'em down plenty a whole lot easier than if you've just got a handgun, an' _definitely_ beat you guys tryin' ta wrassle with them.

"Remember, even the average vamp is damn near as strong an' fast as I am, an' you got a pretty good look last night at what I can do. Plus, vamps got _way_ sharper teeth than I have and can tear your throat out; I've seen it done, an' it ain't pretty. _Don't_ try takin' a vamp on up close; you just ain't gonna win. If you try that, then if you're lucky they'll just kill ya; if you ain't, they'll turn your ass."

Gibbs nodded as he set down his riot gun and accepted one of the sleek compact machine pistols. "You're the expert," he agreed.

"Are we _really_ gonna need this much firepower, though?" Tony sceptically asked. "I mean, I thought you're, like, Wonder Woman Junior with all your superpowers – whadda you need _us_ for?"

"Well, there's the little matter of there only bein' one of me an' at least two-dozen bad guys – maybe more, if they've sent for backup," Faith pointed out.

"Yeah, but he's a _Terminator,"_ Tony argued, gesturing at Xander.

Faith shrugged. "So? Even Tee can't be in two places at once. Now, sure, him an' me can kick serious ass, but _some_ of the bad guys're gonna get a free shot at us while their buddies keep us busy; we need you t' try an' keep summa them off our backs. I dunno if they've got any spells that could harm Tee, but if they start hittin' _me_ with fireballs an' other stuff like that, then I am one dead little Slayer."

"Good point," Tony conceded.

Faith grinned as she donned her wraparounds and began tying her red silk bandana over her hair. "Awright: let's go swing by that hunting goods store over on Groener Drive that the A-Man mentioned, get you guys some webbing an' shit t' carry your ammo in, then we'll go make the Snitch squeal like Piggy in _Deliverance_."

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Highway 9011, CA**

**20 Miles East of Sunnydale**

The convoy of nine Humvees and six five-ton trucks rumbled along the sun-baked river of asphalt under a clear blue sky. All fifteen vehicles' three-man crews were clad in regular woodland-pattern BDUs and relaxed as they drove, having cranked up their air conditioning and radios to full power.

In the lead Humvee, the vehicle's speakers throbbed and pulsed, blaring out a powerful beat and loud lyrics:

_Back in black _

_I hit the sack _

_I've been too long, I'm glad to be back_

"So, Righ – where we pickin' up the helos?" Gates asked, half-turning around in the shotgun seat and raising his voice to make himself heard over the music.

Finn leaned forward, map in hand, and held it out for Gates to see. "Right here, man," Finn said, tapping the map. "Camp Manticore; it's about two hundred klicks out from the target."

Gates grimaced. "Aw, _man_, Righ, why'd ya have to pick a _Marine_ base? They probably ain't even _heard_ of plumbing, there…"

_Yes, I'm let loose _

_From the noose _

_That's kept me hanging about _

Finn shrugged. "Hey, it was the closest base I could find that's got a SOCOM compound. We'll show up, rest the night there, collect the helos first thing tomorrow morning when we're sharp and frosty – and don't _worry_, I remembered to requisition 'em in advance this time, I _did_ remember it was my turn – then gear up, and fly to this Springton dump.

"Time on target should be twenty minutes, tops; if we're lucky, it'll be under five. We get our boots on the dirt, we grab one Zee-type – maybe two, if we can do it safely – then haul ass to the Ell-Zee, hop back in the choppers and dust off."

"Good, 'cause I fuckin' _hate_ Zee-types," Gates groused.

Finn chuckled at that. "Man, and I thought you Team Six guys were supposed to be tough, the way you carry on about how all the other SEALs are total wimps next to you boys."

_I've been looking at the sky _

'_Cause it's gettin' me high _

_Forget the hearse 'cause I never die _

"Yeah, yeah – keep _that_ up and I'll kick your ass and feed you that pretty little green beret you're so proud of," Gates good-naturedly returned. "'Sides, _I_ ain't the one who lost the coin toss and got snatch duty for me and my guys – instead, we'll be sitting pretty providing cover fire."

"Yeah, while my squad do all the _hard_ work," Finn sighed exaggeratedly. "It figures you'd get the cushy job…"

"Oh, I'm just plain lucky, I guess," Gates laughed. "What's our helo package look like?"

_I got nine lives _

_Cat's eyes _

_Abusin' every one of them and running wild_

"I got us three MH60L Pave Hawks for transport, and two AH-6 Little Bird gunships to provide top cover. Winslow's guys will crew the birds, and we've got Raimi and four extra guys along to form a sniper team; they'll stay aboard the Hawks as extra fire support, while our squads rope in."

"That sure sounds like enough. We got the usual protocols for civvies?"

Finn nodded as he folded up the map. "Yeah – if there's any chance they're infected, we bring them in for Walsh to study. Otherwise, we leave them. If they get in our way, we take them out."

'_Cause I'm back _

_Yes, I'm back _

_Well, I'm back _

_Yes, I'm back _

_Well, I'm back, back _

_I'm back in black _

_Yes, I'm back in black_

"Gotcha. Hey, Righ?"

Noting Gates' serious tone of voice, Finn looked up from the map and met the other man's gaze. "What's wrong, man?"

"If I get bit… you'll finish me, right, man?" Gates asked. "I don't wanna turn into some HST – _'specially_ not a fuckin' Zee-type."

_Well, I'm back, Yes I'm back _

_Well, I'm back, Yes I'm back _

_Well, I'm back, back _

_Well I'm back in black _

_Yes I'm back in black _

Finn nodded. "You got a deal, on one condition."

"What's that?"

"If _I_ get bitten, you've gotta return the favour."

_Hooo yeah _

_Ohh yeah _

_Yes I am _

_Oooh yeah, yeah Oh yeah _

Gates grinned, relieved. "You got it man. One thing, though – what if we both get bit? We do each other at the same time?"

"Yeah, that oughta work. We'll shoot on a three-count."

"On 'three' or after 'three'?"

_Back in now _

_Well I'm back, I'm back _

_Back, I'm back _

_Back, I'm back _

_Back, I'm back _

_Back, I'm back _

_Back _

_Back in black _

_Yes I'm back in black _

_Out of the sight_

"_On_ 'three' – it's _always_ quicker to go on 'three'."

"Okay, fine by me."

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Willy's Alibi Room, Sunnydale, CA**

With a roar of engines, a motorbike and a saloon pulled up outside a dull, dingy and downright dismal-looking run-down bar.

"Umm… Boss? You, uh, you ready for this?" Tony asked as they clambered out of the government-issue saloon and walked around to the back.

"As I'll ever be," Gibbs said calmly as he popped open their car's boot; he reached inside, then handed Tony a set of US military-surplus webbing pouches.

"Okay, good, that's… good…" Tony mumbled as he buckled on the webbing, the pouches bulged and quietly clinked as the spare shotgun shells and magazines of ammunition shifted and rattled around inside.

"Try and relax a little, DiNozzo," Gibbs encouraged him. "Remember, Lehane and Harris are the big guns, here – if there's any trouble, our job's to stay outta their way, and give them a little cover fire if they need it."

Tony licked his lips nervously and nodded. "Okay, Boss."

"Hey, guys," Faith greeted them, untying her bandana and shaking her hair loose. "You got all your gear an' ammo ready?"

"Yeah. How d'you want to run this?" Gibbs asked.

Faith blinked, surprised. "Wait, you're asking _me?"_

"Well, _yeah,"_ said Gibbs. "This is more your field than ours."

"Hey, I ain't no leader, Gunny, an' I'm still pretty new t' all this," Faith pointed out.

Gibbs shrugged. "You might be new to it; we're even newer."

"T' the _supernatural_, maybe, Gunny; but you've fought in at least one war before, right? An' you've been a navy cop for a good few years. So far, I've mostly either run like hell and tried t' avoid gettin' shot, sicced Tee on the bad guys, or jumped in headfirst myself."

"And that approach seems to have worked pretty well," Gibbs pointed out. "Look, if I honestly think you're making a mistake that'll get us killed, I'll let you know. Otherwise?" He shrugged. "Far as I'm concerned, for now it's your call."

Faith nodded. "Okay," she said quietly, and slowly rubbed her hands together, looking thoughtful. "Okay. Awright… goin' by the vehicles in the parking lot out front, it looks like this place is open fer business – that means there'll prolly be some demons inside. There shouldn't be any vamps seein' how the sun's up, but no guarantees – might be a couple with a real thirst on 'em. Seein' how mosta the spaces are empty, though, that prob'ly means it ain't gonna be _too_ busy.

"Me an' Tee'll go in first: give us exactly _three_ minutes t' lay out the ground rules to this Willy guy an' his customers, then come on in. If ya hear a fight start up, don't worry 'bout it; just come in at the three-minute mark. That okay with you?"

Gibbs nodded. "Works for me."

**[—]**

Willy looked up sharply from where he'd been connecting up a fresh barrel of goat blood to one of the bar top pumps, and his heart sank in dread.

The front door of his establishment had just been kicked wide open so fast and hard that its top hinge had been ripped clean out of the wall, and the bottom hinge buckled dangerously under the door's creaking weight. A second later, a slender leather-clad female form swaggered through the doorway, backlit by the sun shining down outside.

"Willy the Snitch," she drawled, her tone and demeanour indicating that it wasn't a question.

"Uh… uh… wh-who's askin'?" he quavered.

The girl smirked as she stepped forward out of the glaring sunlight and he got his first good look at her face. "Name's Faith," she replied, tossing her head to flick an errant lock of hair from her face.

A large vampire rose from his seat at a centre table. He was big and brawny, built like Stallone after a health farm regime specialising in large quantities of beef, exercise and steroids, and towered over the girl by a clear two feet. "Little meat sacks should stay out of demon bars," the vampire snarled, shifting into game face as he deliberately stepped into his personal space. "Lunch is on you… or rather, _in_ you."

The girl slowly looked him up and down, removing her wraparound sunglasses and slipping one of the arms into her tank top as she did so, then – moving almost too fast for Willy's eye to keep up with – flicked her left wrist: a stake shot out of her jacket sleeve, landed squarely in her grip, and she slammed the stake home into the vampire's heart.

"Good little vamps should be seen an' not heard," the girl purred.

As the resulting cloud of ashes pitter-pattered to the ground, the girl smirked, her gaze roaming the room as she made eye contact with every last one of Willy's early patrons. One by one, the various demons, both human-looking and non, were forced to blink first and turn away

Willy gulped. "Y-you're a, uh, a-a Slayer?"

"Check out the big brains on Willy," Faith said sardonically, sliding the stake back up her sleeve. "You're a smart motherfucker, ain't ya?"

At that point, a patch of the wall five feet to the left of the ruined front door exploded inwards in a cloud of dust and semi-intact bricks and lumps of plaster. A large and powerful-looking leather-clad young man strode through the rubble into the bar. A pair of wraparound sunglasses hid his eyes and – bizarrely enough – he was carrying a box of roses under his arm.

"This is Tee," Faith continued, not even batting an eyelid at her companion's method of entrance. "He's a close friend a' mine."

Willy's eyes widened in recognition. "Hey, wait a second… isn't he th-that Harris kid, usedta hang around with the Summers Slayer?"

Faith shrugged. "He used ta be."

"I heard he was _dead!"_

"Ya heard wrong," Faith said, crossing over to the bar and hopping up onto a stool.

"So… what the hell _is_ he?"

Faith shook her head as she chuckled; a rich and smoky sound, almost seductive, with dark and menacing undertones. "Willy, Willy, _Willy_… You don't get ta _ask_ questions, here. I dunno how you did this with the _last_ Slayer, but whatever arrangements you had with her? Consider them… _terminated._" Her lips twitched into a predatory grin at that; Willy suddenly felt a pressing and immediate need to go to the toilet.

"Here's the deal," Faith continued, as she leaned across the bar top and abruptly grabbed Willy's collar in an iron grip; she pulled hard, yanking him forward so they were eyeball to eyeball: he whimpered and squirmed, but her grasp was firm and unyielding. "I got questions. Some friends a' mine got questions. You're gonna answer _every_ single one of them.

"An' if you don't, or if you lie – if you lie just once, if you lie just a little, if you hold even the tiniest li'l detail back, if you even _think_ of tryin' to sell us out or screw with us in _any_ way, shape or form, Willy… I swear, I will tear your fuckin' legs outta their sockets and force-feed your own _dick_ to you, right before I set fire to this shithole with you inside it, and watch as you crawl outta here draggin' your bloody stumps behind you.

"And then…" she paused, reached under her jacket with her free hand, and drew out a chunky sleek black handgun that looked decidedly powerful and menacing, "…_then_ I'll put a bullet through your skull an' put you outta my misery. _Got it?"_ she finished with a low and menacing growl.

"S-Summers never u-used a gun!" Willy protested. "O-Or that Kendra chick! S-Slayers ain't s'posed ta kill humans!"

Faith gave a nonchalant shrug, then abruptly slammed her forehead into Willy's face. He screamed as his nose collapsed into a bloody pulp under the force of her headbutt. His customers looked on, some with interest, some growing visibly nervous, but none of them moving to intervene.

"I ain't them," Faith growled as she drew her head back. "New Slayer, new rules. Now, you _got it?_ Or 're we gonna haveta skip ahead to the part where I kill you already?"

Staring into Faith's dark eyes, Willy gulped. "Got it," he whimpered.

Releasing Willy's collar, Faith gave him a hefty shove that sent him flying back into a set of shelves laden with some of his more expensive drinks; a dozen or so bottles shattered under the force of the impact. Various liquors and bloods splashed over Willy; a few stray drops narrowly missed Faith.

"Good," Faith said as she slipped her pistol back into its holster, then pulled a tissue from her jacket pocket and wiped a small smear of Willy's blood from her forehead. "I _hate_ repeatin' myself. And get a fuckin' mint or somethin' – your breath stinks like a vamp."

At that point, Gibbs and Tony entered the bar, the latter through the gaping empty doorway and the former clambering through the hole in the wall.

"Hey, guys," Faith greeted the agents, half-turning on her barstool and tossing her bloodstained tissue aside. "Meet the Snitch," she said, jerking her thumb over her shoulder at the bartender, who was busy climbing back up again. "Snitch? Meet Special Agents Gibbs an' DiNozzo, NCIS."

Willy frowned, puzzled. "Huh? What, is that anything like CSI?"

Tony chose that moment to noisily chamber a round in his riot gun. "Only if you're _dyslexic,"_ he growled, not quite pointing the riot gun at Willy, but not aiming it too far away from the bartender either.

Willy gulped again. "Now, er, l-look, A-Agent Gibbs, I din't mean nothin'—"

"I'm _DiNozzo,"_ Tony cut him off, still sounding very testy. _"He's_ Gibbs."

"NCIS is the Navy's version a' the FBI, an' these guys're good friends of mine," Faith told Willy. "Don't even _think_ of tryin' ta screw 'em around."

Gibbs jerked his head to indicate Willy. "Should he be bleeding like that?" the agent asked Faith in a disinterested tone.

The Slayer nodded. "Yes."

"Fair enough," said Gibbs. "Is he human?"

Faith shrugged. "Barely."

"Hey, hey, n-now there's no call t-to be getting personal, Slayer…" Willy protested.

"Uh-uh, ya see what you're doin' wrong, there, Snitch?" Faith interrupted him. "You're talkin' when no one asked you a freakin' question. 'Less you really _want_ me t' start tearin' your legs off, ya _juuust_ might wanna stop doin' that."

"There's a bunch of vampires from the Blood Pact in town," Gibbs said, fixing Willy with his most piercing stare. "Where're they based?"

Willy shook his head. "I-I-I dunno!"

Faith sighed and noisily cracked her knuckles. "Awright, looks like we gotta do this the _hard_ way, then…"

"It's true, I swear!" Willy shouted, shrinking back from Faith. "Pact vamps ain't like the regular ones I get in here: they _gotta _have their blood fresh outta the artery – it's some kinda religious thing, I think – an' they hate all other demons, an' they hate humans, won't even _speak_ to ya 'less you're a vamp an' they get real snooty 'bout vamps who ain't part of the Pact, so no Pact vamp would come here for a drink 'less it was outta _me!"_

"You musta heard _something_, though, right?" said Tony. "After all, over two-dozen Blood Pact guys and gals turn up in town, looking to end the world and all… _some_ of your customers must know stuff about them?"

"Yeah, but I ain't heard nothin' you guys don't already know – that there's a buncha Pact vamps in town, I only heard there was maybe a dozen or so, and there's only _one_ reason those freaks would visit an active Hellmouth like this one, and that's just plain bad for _everyone's_ business, right? If I know anything – _anything_ – that would help bring those guys down, believe me, I'd tell you in a heartbeat!"

Faith shrugged, then turned on her bar stool to address the Alibi Room's patrons. "How 'bout you guys?" she asked loudly. "Anyone know anythin' 'bout where the Pact might be holed up? We're only talkin' 'bout the end a' the freakin' _world_ – an' alla your asses _with_ it – bein' on the line, here… Just FYI…"

Slowly, with a sound like a stack of bricks toppling over, a large and rocky sandy-yellow demon rose from its specially reinforced chair and unfolded itself to its full height of eight feet. Its long curling horns – which would not have looked out of place on Highland Cattle – scratched against the Alibi Room's ceiling. Aside from a large and rotting leather loincloth – which stank like a relic from the Hundred Years War and mercifully concealed its groin – it was naked.

"Clawster confused," the demon rumbled, reaching up and noisily rubbing the top of its head with one clawed hand. "Why puny hoo-muns still live?"

"'Cause she's a fuckin' _Slayer_, dumbass!" a skinny male vampire hissed from a nearby table. "An' who _knows_ what the Harris kid is now-days, but _I_ sure ain't tanglin' with him; an' the feds look pretty handy with those shotguns they're packin'."

"Speak for yourself," sneered another of the Alibi Room's customers. He was a tall and slender man in black, human in appearance and wearing a black cape with an oversized collar. He sat alone at a corner table, nursing a glass of white wine. Glittering green eyes peered out from his pasty white face, framed by jet-black hair and a neatly trimmed beard. Jewelled rings adorned his black-gloved hands. "Slayers aren't all that tough, the feds are just humans, and whatever demon the boy's become will have weak points that can be exploited."

"Yeah, like _you're_ ever gonna try taking them on, Juros!" jeered a tall avian Tralon demon, her beak clicking contemptuously as she ruffled her neck feathers.

Juros glowered at her. "Oh, you think not, my dear? We shall _see!"_ he snarled, setting down his glass and rising to his feet. His fingers began to weave intricate patterns through the air as he began to mutter an incantation, a dim green light flickering about his eyes as he glanced over at Gibbs and Tony.

Dipping his hand into a pouch on his belt, Juros tossed fragments of bone and skin onto the floor beside the NCIS agents as the incantation ended.

Like a jerky stop-motion picture that had been sped up, the fragments erupted into a swirl of motion, growing dull grey dead flesh over rudimentary skeletal frames, until in a matter of seconds Gibbs and Tony were encircled by half a dozen mouldering zombies that began to slowly shamble toward them.

"That ought to keep you busy," Juros snarled, then glowered at Xander. "Now for you… _whatever_ you are," he spat, before beginning a fresh incantation.

Clawster cast his gaze over Gibbs and Tony, then turned to Faith. "Little sticks no hurt Clawster," the demon boasted. "Slayer no hurt Clawster! Clawster invulnerable! _Clawster show puny vampires how fight!"_ he finished with a roar, then launched himself into a lumbering run at the Slayer.

"Tee, waste the mage!" Faith snarled, leaping onto the bar top and flicking both wrists; a pair of stakes promptly sprang into her hands. "I got Rock Boy! Gunny, Junior – take the friggin' zombies down already!"

Xander promptly reached into the box of roses and began to step forward. Gripped by a powerful feeling of _déjà vu_, Tony watched as the cold black steel of the Winchester emerged as the box fell open, the roses spilling to the floor; the Terminator's boot crushed the flowers as the cyborg advanced, jacking a round into the chamber and then bringing the weapon to bear one-handed. A deafening roar filled the barroom as he pulled the trigger.

Juros smirked and raised his hands to point at Xander as the buckshot pellets rebounded from a shimmering silver field of energy mere inches in front of him. Still the incantation spilled out past the mage's lips, and a glittering emerald green light streamed forth from his fingertips, striking the advancing Terminator full in the chest, directly over the spot where his heart would have been if he were human.

"DiNozzo!" Gibbs shouted a warning as he fired his riot gun, blasting one zombie back with half her head shot away.

Snapped out of his impromptu reverie, Tony looked around and found a pair of zombies lurching toward him. "Gaaah!" he yelped, bringing his own riot gun to bear and firing from the hip almost without thinking: his shell caught the zombie nearest him square in the chest and knocked it back a few paces. Pumping the action, Tony fired again, this time spilling the zombie's rotting brain cells onto the floor even as Gibbs nailed another.

Faith sprang at Clawster, her arms fully extended out straight and the points of her stakes leading the way. The demon roared triumphantly as he accelerated toward her – a roar that abruptly cut off into a wet throaty gurgle as the stakes slammed squarely into his eyeballs.

Four inches of hardwood gouged through each iris, penetrating on through the cornea and straight through the back of the eye socket, driving deep into Clawster's brain even as his momentum carried him onwards.

Still grimly gripping the ends of the stakes for dear life, Faith twisted around as her own momentum brought her body forward, and managed to plant the soles of her booted feet squarely against Clawster's chest. Kicking powerfully off from his torso, she coiled herself up into a backflip over Clawster's head, her feet leading the way as she narrowly slipped between his curling horns, and landed in a crouch on the floor behind him as the runaway demon – by now either dying or already dead – slammed full tilt through the bar, crashed through the wall beyond, and at last noisily toppled to the ground.

Gibbs racked his shotgun again, aimed and fired; the zombie in front of him promptly dropped, its head torn away. Momentarily glancing over at his partner even as he pumped his Ithaca's action once more, he was quietly gratified to see Tony dropping his second zombie of the battle; looking away, he found the last zombie had gotten too close for him to bring his shotgun to bear on it.

With a snarl, Gibbs took a hasty step back, flipped his Ithaca and slammed its butt up into the zombie's face. The undead thing's head snapped back with an audible _click_ of rotted vertebrae snapping and staggered back a step; Gibbs promptly inverted his riot gun again, pressed the muzzle against the zombie's chin, and pulled the trigger. The zombie's head exploded in a fountain of gore, and it toppled to the ground.

Juros frowned as the last of his magical attack on Xander fizzled out and the Terminator continued to march inexorably toward him. "That should have drained your life force… What in all the hells _are_ you?" the mage whispered, enraged and bewildered, a mere second before Xander lashed out with his empty hand.

The cyborg's clenched fist emerged from the back of Juros's skull, covered in blood and gory grey matter.

Tony grimaced. "Eww… I did _not_ want to _see_ that!" he protested.

Blank-faced, Xander vigorously shook his arm to dislodge the dead mage's corpse from his fist, and the cadaver noisily thudded to the floor. Scraping grisly scraps of flesh and bone and brains from his left hand off on Juros's tabletop, he then gripped the Winchester's barrel: working the action, the Terminator chambered a fresh round.

Gibbs warily prodded one of the fallen zombies with the barrel of his Ithaca, then, satisfied that it was truly dead, snagged a couple of spare buckshot shells from one of his webbing pouches and began feeding them into the riot gun.

Faith made a big show of dusting off her hands and pulling a pair of stakes out of her jacket pockets as she straightened up, then glared at the Alibi Room's remaining customers. "Anyone _else_ wanna try somethin' dumb?" she growled.

Tony noisily pumped the slide of his Ithaca, chambering a fresh round. "I really, _really_ wouldn't advise that, folks," he said loudly. "Take a _good_ long look at her… that is _not_ the look of a gir—uh, _Slayer_ who's completely _stable_, if ya know what I mean?"

Briefly shooting Tony a sidelong glance, Faith saw him quickly wink at her. Instantly catching onto his act, she resumed glowering around the bar's customers with her most intense scowl, and deliberately twitched her left lower eyelid a couple of times for emphasis as she did so.

Timidly, a bulky demon with floppy ears and much-folded pink wrinkly skin covering his body raised a hand. "Erm… e-excuse me?" he asked, his fleshy lips parting to reveal a mouth full of pointed sharp teeth. "Th-these 'Blood Pact' vampires… d-do they wear robes? Hide their faces with hoods? Got magic powers?"

"That's them," Faith said tightly.

"Okay, then I-I saw a b-bunch of 'em near the old Church of St. Marcus in Blakeney cemetery two nights back – I w-was on my way home from the poker game here."

"How many?"

"About half a dozen – no more than eight, tops. It was kinda hard to get a head count with those robes they were wearing, and I was kinda hiding at the time: I saw them fry a Miquot demon, you see – they hit him with a couple of fireballs. I don't think they saw me. I saw 'em go in the crypt, a-and I ran back to my place – I didn't wanna be around when they came out."

"Were they carrying anything?"

"Yeah – now you come to mention it, they had these long poles, with metal round things dangling from the end on chains."

Faith nodded, pocketing one of her stakes. "Thanks, man – 'preciate it," she told the demon, then reached into her jacket: she pulled out a few folded banknotes, which she tossed onto the demon's table. "Got a name?"

The demon's eyes widened in surprise as he pocked the banknotes. "Name's Clem; I'm a—"

"Varroq demon an' ya don't eat live food bigger'n kittens, I know," Faith cut him off. "Yer cousin Caddy sends her love, by th' way."

Clem's jaw dropped. "Y-You know Caddy?"

"Yup: I bought these pants from her while passin' through Austin. Lady sure knows her leather."

Clem grinned proudly at that. "She sure does."

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Sunnydale City Hall, Sunnydale, CA**

"Ah, there you are, Allan!" Wilkins said perkily as he stepped out into the corridor and closed his office door behind him. Taking a handkerchief from his trouser pocket, he fastidiously wiped a grey-green smear of something that Finch didn't want to think about from his forehead.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" Allan politely asked, struggling to remain sounding calm.

"I hate to do this to you, Allan," Wilkins began, laying a sympathetic hand on Finch's shoulder, "but I need you to meet with that nice young Mr Clark from Chase Industries for me at five o'clock; unfortunately, I'm going to be inescapably detained here."

"Uh, very well, sir," Finch said, baffled.

"Thank you, Allan. It's this business with the late Mr Jones, you see," Wilkins elaborated, gesturing toward his office door. "I need to see a man about an assassination, and Mr Jones left a rather nasty mess on the carpet of my office. And the walls. And, now I come to think of it, the ceiling. Gosh, he was a _very_ messy man, he got absolutely _everywhere_. His kidneys tasted like a Thanksgiving Day turkey, though – truly delicious. Would you mind terribly if I made a call from your office while you meet with Mr Clark?"

Finch did a speedy double-take as his conscious mind finished fully processing Wilkins' penultimate sentence, and suppressed the urge to shudder. "Certainly, sir," Finch said quickly.

"I truly do hate to have to put you to this trouble, Allan," Wilkins said contritely, turning Finch around and giving him a gentle push. "But, I fear, needs must."

"Oh, _no_, sir, it really is no trouble at all…" Finch assured him, as they headed off down the corridor together.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Sunnydale High School, Sunnydale, CA**

"How'd it go?" Jonathan asked as the library's doors swung open. "You guys find any clues at the hotel room?"

Tony shook his head. "Nah, total bust. We had better luck at that demon bar."

"Anyone know where St. Marcus's Church is in Blakeney Memorial?" Faith asked. "'Cause we got a demon says he saw a buncha Pact go in it two nights back. Don't think it's their main lair, though; sounds like it might be the new ritual site."

"Even better – we got this," Warren said, unfolding a map and laying it out on the main study table. "St. Marcus's… _ah_, here we go," he said happily, tapping the map. "It's in the northeast corner – pretty close to the DuVall Heights and the Drysdale Hotel."

"It's a ruin – it burned down years ago," Jonathan added, laying out a set of floor plans next to the map. "But it's got a really big crypt underground – if it's still intact, they'll probably use that, seeing how the rest of the building's a pile of rubble."

"Northeast corner, northeast corner… got it, take a look at this!" Grinning from ear to ear, Andrew set a couple of enlarged photographs on the table.

"Where'd you get _these?"_ Tony asked, puzzled. "What'd you guys do," he jokingly asked, "hack an NRO satellite or… some… thing…?" he trailed off, as the three former Leaguers began looking embarrassed and uncomfortable. "Wait, you _did?"_ Tony asked, incredulous.

"Never mind that for now, DiNozzo," Gibbs told him, already intently studying the documents.

"Whatcha thinkin', Gunny?" Faith asked.

"Looks like this crypt's got only one door, no other way in or out," Gibbs mused, picking up a pencil and tapping its blunt end against one of the photos. "The good news is the Pact will have to get past us to escape or to get inside. The bad news is they've got us outnumbered and outgunned, and that kind of reduces the advantage."

Faith shook her head. "Nuh-uh, Gunny," she grunted. "From what Tee told me 'bout this town, it's got a nasty habit of havin' sewers an' other tunnels runnin' all over the place that're _real_ convenient fer vamps t' jump into, so's they can escape sunlight or their enemies. Some a' those run through the graveyards, an' even directly into some a' the tombs themselves – I wouldn't be surprised if there's an underground route. If there _is_ one, they might be able ta bolt that way."

"Fighting things about as strong and fast as you that also throw fireballs and other magic stuff around down in a sewer doesn't sound like fun," said Tony. "We'd be right up close in their faces, no distance between us, and only you and the Terminator here would be able to even see down there in the dark…"

"Yeah, an' everyone 'cept for Tee would get dead real quick at that close range," Faith agreed.

"Our priorities have got to be rescuing Mulgrew and stopping this… Rite of Emmkatch, or whatever it's called," Gibbs said decisively. "Wiping out the vampires is a bonus if we can pull it off, but that's all. If some of them _do_ escape, they'll keep."

Faith slowly nodded. "Yeah, I guess it doesn't matter too much if some a' the Pact get away… we can take them out later, an' maybe on _our_ terms 'stead a' theirs. If we can find out where their main lair's at, we could catch them with their pants down an' dust them all 'fore they know what's hit them."

"Too bad we couldn't get any leads on the main lair today," Tony said gloomily. "That means we've gotta wait for them to show up at the crypt." He brightened up. "Hey, Boss, it's been a while since we last had a stakeout. Get it? _Stake_-out?"

"My vote's for us waitin' 'til the Pact are all inside the crypt before we hit 'em," Faith said, ignoring the pun.

Gibbs nodded. "Yeah, that way they'll be bottled up with no room to manoeuvre," he agreed. "If we hit them out in the open, they could split up and outflank us. If we were dealing with humans, I'd favour taking them on outside – we'd be able to wipe most of them out with one burst from that '240 your buddy Xander grabbed last night, before they even realised we were out there. But seeing how our longest-ranged effective weapons are crossbows and shotguns…" he shook his head.

"Right, I know what you mean, Gunny," Faith agreed. "Still, you guys should be able t' hold that door pretty good together, while Tee an' me get in there an' mix it up at point-blank range. You an' Junior were pretty sharp with those shotguns back at Willy's, so I figure you'll do okay s' long as you've got ammo."

"Wh-What happened at Willy's?" Andrew stammered.

"Small zombie problem," Faith said offhandedly. "Some wizard-type guy callin' himself 'Juros' grew 'em or summoned 'em or whatever."

Jonathan grimaced. "Man… that sounds like _really_ powerful dark magic," he said.

Faith nodded. "Yeah, he tried ta drain Tee's life force, too. _Idiot,"_ she snorted in contempt. "He kinda lost his head when that didn't work. By the way, those stake launchers? I ain't tried the SL-2s out yet, but the SL-1s worked like a charm," she said, turning to the Scoobies. "I got the drop on a big vamp an' a rock demon with those things – they're really kick-ass."

"R-Really?" Andrew stammered, blushing and beaming with timid pride. "Well… wow, th-that's great!"

"Yeah – thanks for, y'know, the feedback, letting us know," Warren added.

"How'd you get a rock demon with stakes?" Jonathan asked, openly intrigued.

"Rammed 'em through the backs of his eye sockets an' Swiss-cheesed his brain," Faith succinctly explained. "So, do any a' you guys know how t' handle a gun? 'Cause, hey, Tee an' me got plenty a' toys left, an' we brought 'em over in the NCIS-Mobile – help yourselves if you know what you're doin'."

"I, uh, I-I've never really been interested before," said Andrew.

Oz shook his head. "Never had the opportunity to learn. Probably be a good idea to, though."

Warren nodded in agreement. "Yeah, me either – I try and stay out of the house whenever Dad has his hunting buddies over."

"My cousin Ziva came to town to visit me and my mom a couple of summers back," said Jonathan. "She took me out to a range and tried to teach me how to fire my dad's old shotgun."

"How'd that work out?" Faith asked.

"I, uh, k-kinda broke my collarbone and fell flat on my butt the first time I pulled the trigger," Jonathan confessed, blushing and fixedly staring at the floor. "That was as far as we got with the lesson – she had to cut her vacation short 'cause of some work-thing that came up at her office, and she left before I got outta hospital."

"Hey, c'mon, Torch, don't feel bad 'bout it," Faith consoled him. "'Til I landed this 'Slayer' gig, I'd never even touched a gun, an' I only managed ta learn 'cause I had superpowers t' take the edge offa the recoil an' a Terminator t' show me what to do. 'Sides, look at alla those cool weapons an' gizmos that you guys built – even _with_ these funky new powers a' mine, I could _never_ have made anything like those," she continued. "Plus, you an' the A-Man have got that whole magic thang goin' on – I ain't an expert, but I'm pretty sure I can't do any of _that_ stuff."

Jonathan brightened at that. "Y-yeah, I-I guess you're right."

Faith clapped him on the shoulder. "Attaboy," she said. "Now, talkin' of which, do you guys know any spells useful fer sluggin' it out with a bunch of vampire wizards?"

Jonathan and Andrew exchanged glances, then looked back at Faith. "W-Well, we might not be able to throw fireballs around, b-but I think we can take a 'fight smarter, not harder' approach w-with what we've got," Jonathan said, sounding cautiously optimistic. "I dunno if we'll dust any, b-but we can ruin their concentration, for sure."

Faith shrugged. "Good enough fer me," she said. "Whatcha been workin' on while we were out?"

"Well, we went hunting for the maps and satellite telemetry and stuff like that," Warren began. "Jonathan and Andrew have been, y'know, studying up to make sure they're totally maxed out on spells and stuff; I made a run to Radio Shack and cleaned out the Scooby Fund to buy a bunch of extra walkie-talkies and headsets so we can have one each, and I've been putting in upgrades ever since I got back; Oz's van is fully gassed up, and we've been carving fresh stakes and religious icons so everyone's got plenty. Well, I _say_ religious icons – crucifixes are the simplest shapes that we know of to carve, so it's just those."

"Wait, crosses actually work?" Tony asked. "Like in the old Hammer Horror movies with Christopher Lee?"

Warren nodded. "Oh, _sure_," he said. "But crucifixes aren't the only game in town, plenty of other symbols work too: the Star of David, the Eye of Ra, that yin-and-yang two fish symbol of something-or-other that you see on t-shirts a lot, Star Trek pins, some countries' national flags… Basically, any symbol that represents a concept or collection of ideals that a lot of people have ever sincerely believed in and that're at least _supposed_ to be 'good' and 'powerful' will work as vampire repellent. Even the symbols of an old religion that no one has practiced for centuries will work – well, sometimes, anyway, it's a bit hit-and-miss."

"And here I thought this day couldn't get any weirder…" Tony sighed.

"Do you have to really believe in a symbol for it to work for you?" Gibbs asked. "Y'know, only Christians can use crucifixes, only Jews can use the Star of David…?"

Faith snorted. "Naw, man – _I've_ used crosses 'gainst vamps before just fine, an' the only 'faith' I got is my name," she told him. "Nice work, guys," she said, turning to the Scoobies.

"What's with the walkie-talkies?" Tony asked, picking one up.

Warren beamed proudly. "Well, I've boosted the range, reduced their power consumption, and rigged them so they can piggyback signals on nearby cell phone masts and transmit through the whole network, which gives them even better range when you're aboveground – in theory, so long as you're near cell phone masts, you could contact someone on the other side of the planet with these. I also enhanced the scrambling feature with encryption protocols of my own design – even the NSA can't crack those."

Tony shook his head wonderingly. "Jeez… you guys are like some kind of supernatural junior Q Branch."

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Los Angeles, CA**

Footsteps echoed in the deserted multi-storey car park just as the sun had finished setting over the horizon. A man wearing an expensive suit and a long raincoat walked through the empty bays, until he finally halted in a pitch black spot.

Lindsey McDonald sighed heavily. "Can we get on with this, or do you need even _more_ spy-movie theatrics?" he impatiently demanded of the darkness. "I'm starting to feel like I should be on the set of a movie about Watergate."

"Hey, Mac – you call 'em 'theatrics', but _I_ call 'em 'sensible precautions'," a voice came from directly behind him.

Startled, Lindsey stepped forward and whirled around: recognising the man behind him, he glared. "Why do you _always_ have to do that, Sextus?" Lindsey snapped irritably.

Sextus smirked, and shoved his gloved hands into the deep pockets of his grey raincoat. "Because if I didn't then I wouldn't be _me_, now _would_ I, Lindsey Mac," he said smugly.

Sextus – a name that Lindsey was almost certain was an alias – was difficult to describe.

He could pass for a man in his twenties as easily as one in his early forties. His hair was an indeterminate colour that could be described as a multitude of variations on 'blond' or 'brown', and no two people could ever agree on which.

The same was true of his eyes and height: a greenish blue tinged faintly with grey, and somewhere between five foot six and six foot five. Even his accent was difficult to quantify, variously sounding Texan, Californian, Northwest Territorial, New Yorker and Kansan, among a whole host of others.

Sextus was a man whom nature had intended to wear a crowd like a less naturally skilled being would wear a disguise – if indeed he was even human; Lindsey privately had doubts. In short, he was truly an enigma.

Lindsey sighed. "What can you tell me about 'them'?" he asked.

Sextus' smirk remained in place. "Straight t' business, then," he remarked. "I heard about how you scared poor Brigid earlier today – she's gone into hiding, poor thing. Edward's not too happy with you either."

"Why? What the hell's the big deal about these people?" Lindsey demanded impatiently.

Sextus shrugged. "'The big deal' is what the people 'in the know' – people like me, people like Edward, people like Brigid – actually know about _them_," he said.

"And what _do_ you actually know?"

"Very little. Mostly, the results of their work – or at least, what we _assume_ was their work," Sextus amended. _"They_ don't exactly leave signed notes, but sometimes… _sometimes_, something happens, and the aftermath of that something just seems t' be their style, know what I mean?"

"And what 'somethings' are those?"

"Disrupted rituals and sacrifices. Thwarted attempts to bring about the apocalypse. People 'in the know' ending up dead – or vanishing altogether, no matter what kind of precautions they took. Groups of vampires or demons or dark mages getting wiped out, entire death cults destroyed. But none of _that_ stuff is what makes these folks such a big deal."

"So what _does?"_

Sextus grinned. "The little fact that no one – and I mean absolutely _no one_ – knows anything _else._ Normally you'd expect t' hear names in among the rumours and gossip, names that can be proven later on; or for evidence of _some_ kind to be found that'd eventually lead to someone figuring out who's behind it all. But that's just not happened. Whoever _they_ are, they're really good at cleaning up after themselves.

"The problem is, there's so much rumour and hearsay that no one – including me – really knows for sure what incidents _they_ are truly responsible for or not. _They_ might not even be one group: there might be some copycats out there muddying up the waters even more than they already are.

"Heck, one of my best people, Hanson? She's got a theory – _just_ a theory, mind you – that _they_ don't actually exist, not as a single person or group; instead, lots of different folks and groups have heard the whispers about _them_ and copied the M.O., with each fresh incident just going to add further to the rumours.

"Bottom line, Lindsey Mac? No one – and I do mean absolutely _no one_ – even _begins_ to understand _them_. And you always fear what you don't understand. Always. You, me, your Senior Partners – everyone. No one knows any names; no one knows where they're based – or even if they _have_ some kind of base; no one knows where they get their funding; no one knows their agenda."

Lindsey shook his head and stared off into the dark distance as he mulled this over. "Could it be the Watchers?" he finally asked. "Maybe-maybe they've got some new kind of warrior, or a new training regime for the Hunter Force teams…?"

"No, no, _no_, it's not the _Watchers_, Lindsey," Sextus chided him, sounding faintly disappointed. "Good grief, do you think that bunch could keep something _this_ big quiet? They've got more leaks than a sieve.

"I know the McIntyre plan didn't work out quite as well as Manners wanted it to, seeing how the idiot got himself whacked by HMG after he broke the Alliance up. But since then, your firm's bought off plenty of people in the conservative camp, and even a couple of the traditionalists have sold out – and _they're_ people that Travers will trust with his life right up to the moment they slip a knife between his ribs.

"No, seeing how your firm can take full control of the Council anytime the Senior Partners want? If the Council _were_ behind all this, then it would've been water cooler gossip at Wolfram & Hart for the past decade by now."

"Okay… How about that government group – the, uh, the Initiative?"

Sextus snorted in contempt. "You're kidding, right? Those idiots haven't got a clue – they think vampires and demons and Slayers are genetic mutants, like outta the _X-Men_ comic books and cartoons."

"Fair point," Lindsey conceded. "So how long have… _they_ been operating, anyway?"

"Now that's a tricky question," Sextus mused, then gave Lindsey a wry grin and a wink. "Then again, _every_ question related to _them_ is a tricky question… Alright, alright – the truth is, no one's really sure," he said hastily, noting Lindsey's exasperated expression.

"Personally, I'm pretty certain they've been active since at least the Eighties, and _maybe_ the Seventies," Sextus continued. "There's a few incidents I'm honestly not sure about yet… but there were definitely incidents in the Eighties that seem to be their style."

"And what _is_ their style?"

"Have you ever heard of Max Sheznavitch?"

Lindsey nodded. "Yeah, kind of: he had an import-export company, used to smuggle just about anything going provided the money was right – weapons, drugs, humans, demons… Something like ten percent of all defections in the Cold War were run through him: both ways, too."

"And do you know how he died?"

Lindsey shrugged. "I heard it happened in his home, while he was asleep in bed?"

Sextus' smirk returned. "Oh, it _did_ happen in his home, but he wasn't asleep and he most _certainly_ wasn't in bed when it happened. He was in his mansion's panic room and wide awake. There wasn't a mark on him, either."

"You're saying that _they_ killed him?"

Sextus nodded. "That I am."

"But… but… wait a second… I heard that Sheznavitch always had dozens of heavily-armed security guards protecting his mansion?" Lindsey protested. "All of them real pros, ex-military special ops types, and some of them vampires? And they had tons of armed military vehicles – Humvees fitted out with machineguns, Hueys, even a few old Sherman tanks that they'd refitted with modern engines and beefed-up weapons?"

"Yes, he did."

"And wasn't his panic room in a nuke-proof bunker? There was only one way in or out, through a door six feet thick, solid granite lined with titanium, and a twenty-digit lock with several billion combinations?"

"Correct on all counts," said Sextus.

"So… how'd they get at him?"

"There was a hole in the floor, leading to a tunnel – a _collapsed_ tunnel. Someone caved it in after they'd finished using it, and did it very thoroughly: Sheznavitch's security chief never found its origin point, and he was extremely good at his job."

Lindsey shook his head in disbelief. "This is _insane…"_

"You get the point, right?" Sextus asked. "Whoever _they_ are, they make a habit of doing things that are downright crazy, things that are impossible and unexpected. Sometimes they use brute force; sometimes they get subtle, _real_ subtle. And while I'm sure it must take them quite a lot of effort to get the results that they do, they do a very good job of making it all look easy and effortless."

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Ruins of the Church of St. Marcus, Sunnydale, CA**

A low and droning sound was dimly audible even aboveground, a sound that was felt as a vibration through the soil as much as it could be directly heard. The chanting rose and fell in cadences no human throat was capable of producing, and raised the hairs on the back of the neck of any unfortunate enough to hear it.

The crypt was nearly as large as the ruins of the church on the surface, a vast echoing hall over a hundred yards long and thirty yards high lined with cold stone coffins occupied by long-dead corpses. The door to the crypt was iron-bound solid oak, barred and locked from within, and secured with lengths of iron chain: a steep and narrow flight of crumbling stone steps led up to the door from the crypt's floor; an old and rusty cast-iron railing ran down one side of the steps.

The three-dozen assembled members of the Blood Pact had gathered at the end of the crypt furthest from the flight of steps that led up to the surface: half of them chalking out intricate circles of runes on the floor; half of them waving spherical metal incense burners that dangled from long wooden poles as they lit candles in sequence; all of them chanting.

Three figures stood halfway between the ritual site and the steps: no two members of this group looked anything alike, but they each wore an identical signet ring.

Streams of vapour began to coil through the air as incense was lit. Candles flickered into life as their wicks ignited, casting gently wobbling shadows onto the walls as they were set into their places. Parchment crackled and rustled as the pages of the Book of Melliflarask were turned.

Muffled whimpers escaped the gag of the struggling feminine figure bound spreadeagle to the top of one of the coffins. Arcane sigils flashed into life one after another as the ritual circle, chalked onto the crypt's stone floor, was completed. Candlelight gleamed from the blade of the Eritrius Dagger.

Something powerful and heavy struck the door; then again, louder this time, rattling the chains and locks. A third blow ripped several of the bars and locks free from the wall; a fourth shattered its hinges; and at last a fifth ripped door, chains, bars and locks free, sending the whole mess of oak and iron and steel hurtling down the steps and across the floor.

The three beringed figures had to leap out of the way as the door skidded across the flagstones toward them. Eventually, it came to a halt just short of the ritual circle.

One after another, Xander and Faith hurtled through the doorway and leapt off to one side, easily landing after the twenty-yard drop. "Knock, _knock!"_ the Slayer shouted as she broke into a run, charging at the ritual circle. A second later, Xander overtook her, Winchester already up as he outpaced her. "Leeeeh-et's get ready to _RUMBLE!"_

Behind the Slayer and the Terminator, two NCIS agents and the Scooby Gang were scrambling down the steps and forming up at the bottom.

Pump-action crossbow in one hand, Warren raised a compact little monoscope to his eye with the other and trained it on the three figures who were fast forming a skirmish line between the two chargers and the ritual circle. Cursing, he let the monoscope dangle by its strap from his wrist and reached for his walkie-talkie.

"Faith!" Warren called in warning over the radio net, "Watch out for the samurai, the demon knight and the chick in the robes!"

"_What's their deal?"_ Faith sent back

"Those signet rings they're wearing? That means they're members of the Order of Taraka – they're, like, this ancient secret league of assassins! The Pact musta hired them for security or-or something!"

**[—]**

The chanting gradually swelled, resonating deep within Faith's very bones and setting her teeth on edge. She ignored the sensation and pulled up a half-dozen yards short of the Tarakans' skirmish line, sizing up her enemies.

Directly ahead of Faith stood a man dressed like a samurai warrior from a bad movie. He drew a shining katana, its hilt richly decorated with a deep red lacquer and gold: his eyes locked with Faith's as he raised the katana in a silent challenge, then he rapidly whipped the blade through a series of infinity loops, tossed it from one hand to another and back again, and finally whirled the blade several times around himself, apparently passing the weapon through his own body more than once.

Faith favoured the samurai with a slight but appreciative and respectful nod, honestly impressed by the demonstration, and received a similar nod in return – then she whipped out her pistol, lined up its sights and fired once.

The samurai promptly collapsed, dead, a small hole neatly drilled between his eyes. Faith darted forward, dropping onto her knees and skidding along the flagstones to cover the final half of the distance separating them, and her free hand lashed out to seize the falling katana and snatch it out of the air.

"_Yoink!"_ Faith called out, grinning triumphantly as she tucked the MK23 back in her shoulder holster.

Off to Faith's left, a humanoid figure – easily eight feet tall, clad in plate armour, and with a helmet obscuring his face – intercepted Xander. The demon knight lashed out at the Terminator with a heavy two-handed sword, the blade of which was inscribed with foul runes of power that glowed a bright and ominous crimson in the darkness.

The T-890 dodged the demon knight's first blow, raised his shotgun and fired, too fast for the demon to escape. He caught the demon square in the chest and knocked it back a pace, off-balance, but the buckshot failed to penetrate the glistening suit of full plate armour. Quickly recovering, the demon spun around and delivered a powerful blow that struck Xander's chest where a human's heart would have been.

Caught between the inhuman strength of the knight and the Terminator's unyielding hyper-alloy combat chassis, the corrupted sword's fell blade shattered into thousands of tiny pieces. An explosion of emerald green magical light and force threw out a visible ripple accompanied by a loud _crack!_ as the sound barrier was broken, and both combatants were hurled into the air.

Stone flagstones cracked with the force of Xander's landing. A second later, the Terminator sprang back to his feet and charged toward the demon, which was still trying to recover its breath and struggle upright.

At the last second, the demon flung out a hand, dark cantrips spilling from its forked tongue within the depths of its helm, and the lids of the four nearest stone coffins evaporated into dust in response. The mouldering skeletons within sat upright, then clambered out and sprang toward the Terminator, bodily tackling him and knocking him away from the knight.

The third Tarakan – a tall albino woman clad in black robes, her long slender gloved fingers bedecked with dozens of magical rings – raised her hands, palms upraised as she uttered an incantation, and she floated up into the air, her robes flapping, her long wide sleeves trailing behind her as she slowly flew toward Faith. Vermillion tendrils of magical power crackled around the lash-less lids of the sorceress' blood-red eyes, and her lips parted in a triumphant smile to reveal inhumanly long and sharp teeth.

Faith raised her newly-purloined katana in her right hand and flicked her left; the bulky SL-2 stake launcher strapped to the underside of her forearm over her jacket's sleeve obligingly fired a stake into her waiting grasp. As ready as she would ever be, she charged at the sorceress—

—A coil of rope shot through the air, snaking and twisting like a living thing as it wrapped itself around the assassin, pinning her hands to her sides and filling her mouth as she was yanked back to the ground: the skirt of her robe flew up for a second or two, then wafted back down.

Not pausing in her charge, not daring to hesitate, Faith swung the katana with all her might as she passed the bound and struggling assassin, who was making indignant-sounding grunts and other noises through her writhing gag. The blade snarled through the air like a breath of wind, and Faith kept her gaze fixed firmly straight ahead as she halted a dozen paces past the sorceress.

The sorceress blinked owlishly in mute surprise as the rope binding her fell away, severed in two. She essayed a triumphant grin, unaware that a thin red line had formed upon her face, running from one side to the other. She began to stand upright, raising her hands once more for another spell and starting to gesture at Faith's back…

The sorceress paused: her instincts were screaming at her that something was wrong… _very_ wrong… but what?

The sorceress' eyes narrowed as she focussed on the blade of Faith's katana.

As if in slow motion, a single little blob of blood dripped from the tip of the katana's blade to splash onto the flagstones below.

The sorceress' eyes widened in shock as she began to scream a protest, a denial—

The top half of the sorceress' head slowly but surely slid off and toppled to the floor, followed seconds later by the rest of her corpse.

**[—]**

Over by the steps, Andrew slumped to the ground, exhausted. "That… I think… I think that went okay…" he said in quiet disbelief, gasping for breath.

"'Okay'? Are you _kidding?_ That was, like, totally fucking _awesome!"_ Warren told him, clapping the younger boy on the shoulder. "You did _great_, Andrew!"

"I… I did?" Andrew said hopefully. "Cool…"

"Okay: what the hell was _that?"_ Tony muttered to Jonathan.

"Animate Rope spell," Jonathan quietly explained. "It, um… well, the name says it all, really."

**[—]**

Xander smashed a fist through the skull of one skeleton and pulverised it; the decapitated skeleton promptly collapsed to the ground.

Flip-cocking his Winchester one-handed, Xander brought the shotgun to bear on another magically-animated skeleton's skull and fired even as he grabbed a third skeleton by the neck with his free hand. Body-slamming it to the floor, he followed up by pile-driving his foot through its skull and shattering it, then slammed his hand through the ribs of the last skeleton and tore its spine apart.

The demon knight was back on its feet by now and charged Xander, ignoring the greatsword sheathed across its back and lashing out with its gauntleted hands. The demon's first blow connected with the Terminator's chest and the gauntlet's sharp barbs further rent at flesh that had already torn by the demon's corrupted sword, and better exposed the gleaming silver armoured combat chassis beneath.

The demon let out a great howl of agony as its hand was crushed to a pulp by the force of the blow against Xander's unexpectedly robust construction. Every bone in the demon's palm and fingers was smashed to matchwood, and the skin over its knuckles burst apart like wet tissue paper.

Discarding his shotgun, Xander seized the demon by the collar of its breastplate with his left hand while drawing his .45 Longslide with his right. Wedging the pistol's muzzle right up against the left eye-slit of the demon's helmet, the Terminator pulled the trigger over and over again with inhuman speed, rapidly emptying the magazine through the slit. A muffled gurgle from the demon accompanied the seven flashes of light that flickered through the helmet's other eye-slit.

Satisfied, Xander cast the demon knight aside: it dropped to the flagstones, which cracked under the weight of nearly half a ton of corpse and armour. A second later, the Longslide's empty magazine landed atop the corpse's breastplate with a noisy metallic rattle, while the Terminator smoothly slid a full mag into place, then slipped the pistol into his belt and recovered his shotgun.

Squinting at one of the Blood Pact – a vampire with more elaborate robes than the others – Faith balanced her katana as though it were a javelin, then let fly. The blade hissed through the air and neatly severed the vampire's hand – the hand that clutched the Eritrius Dagger, which skidded across the floor.

The Pact's leader roared, more in anger than pain, and broke off from his chanting to glare up at the Slayer and the Terminator, who were now charging headlong toward the ritual circle. Pointing with his remaining hand, he shouted a command. None of those present other than the Pact understood the language, but his meaning was clear:

_Kill them._

As one, the assembled vampires of the Blood Pact broke off their chanting and turned to face the intruders.

Arms pumping like pistons as she ran, Faith flicked her right hand, and grinned wolfishly as a stake shot into her grip a split-second before she launched herself into a flying leap.

Landing squarely between two of the Pact, Faith promptly slammed both her stakes into the vampires' hearts and released them: as the vampires exploded into ashes, Faith ran two steps forward and lashed out with her booted right foot, shattering the kneecap of another vampire while flicking both her hands. With a fresh pair of stakes now at the ready, she rammed them home then yanked them out again, dusting the kneecapped vamp and one of his fellows who was midway through an incantation when he disintegrated.

A buckshot shell from Xander's sawn-off Winchester decapitated one of the Pact; a second later, he drove his fist through the chest of a second and out through its back, ripping out its unbeating heart in the process. Both vampires exploded into ash, the latter with an agonised wail, as the Terminator jacked another round into his shotgun and turned to seek out fresh targets.

As Faith tore through the ranks of the Blood Pact like a whirlwind, staking four of them in half as many seconds, two of the vampires found themselves a safe distance away from her. Framing incantations and flicking their fingers through the necessary gestures as they glowered at the rampaging Slayer, they began to cast a series of spells as they took a cautious step or two back… only for their feet to unexpectedly go flying out from underneath them, sending them tumbling to the ground.

Cursing, the fallen vampires realised that the flagstones beneath them were covered in a sticky layer of grease: and no matter how much they struggled, they couldn't begin to get enough traction to pull themselves upright.

Abruptly, a shotgun boomed and one of the fallen vampires exploded into ash. The survivor twisted around to see Xander looming over him, jacking another round into the Winchester and taking aim at his head. The vampire snarled, defiantly beginning an incantation he knew he'd never have time to complete.

As Jonathan and Andrew finished uttering a fresh spell, a many-layered mass of strong and sticky strands that looked rather similar to spider webs sprayed across the crypt from their joined hands. The strands splattered over a stray group of three vampires, and formed a circular web between the crypt's floor and ceiling.

The vampires struggled, but to no avail, hopelessly entangled as they were among the gluey fibres. Their hands still joined, sweat poured down Jonathan and Andrew's faces as they concentrated for all they were worth, sending a trio of pencils floating across the crypt, eventually picking up speed and ramming home into the trapped vampires' hearts.

Recognising this new threat, half a dozen of the Pact broke away from the main fray and dodged around Faith and Xander, running toward the group at the foot of the steps. Raising his crossbow, Oz squinted through the sights and fired with practiced ease: one of the Pact promptly exploded into ashes.

Pulling the crossbow's 'action' forward and downward, Oz checked that the nock had successfully caught the now-slack bowstring, then pushed the action backward and upward to draw the string back into position. Reaching into a pouch hanging at his side as Warren loosed a shaft that caught a vampire in the eye, Oz pulled out a fresh bolt. Dropping it into the crossbow's groove, Oz then took aim and fired again – with less success this time – and vaguely aware that Warren was running through his own reloading drill.

One of the Pact stumbled, tripped, and went sprawling across the flagstones, eventually skidding to a halt at the feet of the door blockers, his undone shoelaces trailing loosely behind him. Gibbs reacted instinctively, lowering his riot gun's barrel and firing: his buckshot tore through the vampire's head at point-blank range.

As the vampire dusted, Gibbs pumped a fresh shell into his shotgun, then caught Jonathan's eye and gave him an approving nod. Taking fresh heart from the silent compliment, Jonathan grinned, a fresh incantation already spilling past his lips.

A vampire exploded, impaled by three crossbow bolts – one each from Oz, Warren and Andrew, the latter having drawn a collapsible pistol crossbow out of sheer desperation. A second pulled up short as Jonathan appeared to burst into flames: Tony quickly despatched the vampire with his riot gun, pumped the action, and fired again, catching a third vampire in the stomach. Gibbs' shot followed not long after, messily removing enough of the vampire's head and brain to cause it to dust even as he moved onto the next incoming vampire.

**[—]**

Ramming stakes into the hearts of a pair of vampires and cursing under her breath as she was a split-second too slow to recover them before the bloodsuckers dusted, Faith sprang atop the stone coffin that had been selected for use as a makeshift sacrificial altar. Snatching a slim-bladed knife from its hiding place in the top of her left boot, she began industriously hacking at the ropes binding the Pact's captive.

"Easy, lady!" Faith shouted, as the young woman beneath her began writhing in fearful earnest. "I'm the gorram cavalry, m'kay? I'm gonna get your ass outta here in a second," she promised, still cutting as fast as she could, "but ya gotta stop movin' around like this 'cause I don't wanna cut you 'stead a' the rope by mistake! Okay?"

Whimpering, the woman – Mulgrew, Faith guessed – settled down at that. "Seriously, you don't gotta worry 'bout _nothin'_," Faith assured her, despite the racket of booming shotguns, dusting vampires, crackling magic, hissing crossbow bolts, and the occasional agonised scream as a vampire met a particularly unpleasant end at Xander's bare hands.

"Me an' my buds, we're workin' with a couple dudes from NCIS, okay?" Faith continued, trying to keep Mulgrew calm. "They're Agents Gibbs an' DiNozzo, real good guys, real pros; ya couldn't be in better hands. There we go!" she shouted triumphantly as she finished hacking through the last of the ropes.

Tearing a wrap of bandage away from Mulgrew's mouth, Faith began plucking out the thick wad of dressings that had been cruelly crammed between the petty officer's jaws, distending them almost to the point of dislocation. Mulgrew sobbed and moaned in relief, right before Faith slipped off her blindfold.

"Petty Officer Janice Mulgrew?" Faith checked, slipping her knife back in her boot.

"Y-Yes?" came a rather panicky reply, as Mulgrew stared fearfully around at her surroundings, shrieking as she saw Xander driving his hand straight through a vampire's head: for a brief second, most of its brain was clearly visible in his grasp, before the organ dusted along with the rest of the vampire.

"Hey!" Faith shouted in her most commanding tone, and gently slapped Mulgrew's face: startled, Mulgrew looked back up at the Slayer. "Freak out later, 'kay? We gotta get your ass outta here! Do exactly what I say, when I say! Got it?"

Mulgrew nodded very quickly as she rubbed her sore wrists. "G-Got it," she whimpered.

Faith half-smirked, and offered Mulgrew a hand. "Come with me if you wanna live," the Slayer drawled as she hauled Mulgrew to her feet, noticing a quartet of vampires rushing toward them.

"Wh-What _are_ you?" Mulgrew gasped, shocked at Faith's inhuman strength.

"Me?" Faith's smirk broadened as she flicked her hands: the SL-2s spat their last stakes into her grasp. "I'm one a' the good guys. 'Scuse me!"

So saying, the Slayer dove off the coffin, hit the floor shoulders first, came up in a forward roll and sprang back up onto her feet. Her stakes drove through the first two vampires' chests: yanking the stakes free before the vampires dusted, Faith met the third vampire with a roundhouse kick that shattered his jaw; while he was thus distracted by the pain, she slammed her left-hand stake through his heart, spinning away and tugging the stake out as he dusted in time to use her right forearm to block a blow clumsily thrown at her by the fourth vampire.

Faith shook her head, disappointed, as she traded rapid-fire blows with the last vampire. "Damn… guess you Pact types must get used ta fightin' with yer mojo, or pickin' off regular clueless humans with brute force, huh?" she said conversationally, right before she slipped past the vampire's clumsy defences and staked him. "Nice try, pal, but no cigar," she told the vampire as he dusted.

Taking advantage of the temporary lull in the fighting, Faith turned back. "Yo!" she called up to Mulgrew. "C'mon, get your ass in gear! Get to me!"

Nervously biting her lip, Mulgrew took little steps over to the edge of the coffin, then sat down on the lid and lowered herself over the side, then took a hesitant and jerky running-shuffle over to Faith, arriving just as the Slayer was busily staking a fresh pair of vampires.

"Keep goin', keep goin'!" Faith shouted at Mulgrew. "You're doin' great! Those guys over there, by the steps? The dudes with the shotguns're the NCIS team, get to them!"

Nodding and whimpering in pain as blood started flowing freely through her limbs once again, Mulgrew obeyed, gradually speeding up until at last she was running for all she was worth, putting her head down and ignoring the mayhem around her as she ran as fast as she possibly could. Crossbow bolts, sprays of buckshot, and even the occasional fireball or animated rope hurtled through the air all around her.

Then she felt an arm around her, strong and overpowering and wrapped around her waist: sobbing, Mulgrew struggled weakly.

"Easy, easy!" a man shouted – he sounded older, commanding, authoritative, used to being obeyed.

Looking up, Mulgrew saw her 'captor' was a silver-haired man wearing webbing pouches over an NCIS windbreaker, a riot gun held ready in his other hand.

"Special Agent Gibbs, NCIS!" he shouted. "Are you Mulgrew? Petty Officer Janice Mulgrew!"

Mulgrew nodded, tears of relief streaming down her cheeks by now. "Y-Yes!"

**[—]**

Snarling, Faith planted a snap-kick square in the gut of one vampire, driving him back several paces: a stake rocketed through the air a split-second later, piercing his heart and reducing him to dust. Reaching inside her jacket, Faith slipped one of the stakes free from its loop in the jacket's lining, flipped it around into an ice-pick grip, then slammed it backwards, staking a vampire that had crept up behind her.

Whirling around, her hair flying every which way, Faith blocked a blow thrown at her head with her upraised left forearm before nailing the attacker with her right-hand stake—

"GAH!" Faith howled as she felt a hot flush of pain surge through her cheek; she lashed out and knocked her attacker away, belatedly recognising him as the leader of the Blood Pact assembly, who awkwardly clutched the Eritrius Dagger in his remaining hand.

Blood dripped down the blade of the Eritrius Dagger…

…And landed on the glowing ritual circle.

Faith felt a sinking feeling in her stomach. "Oh shit," she quietly groaned.

As Faith hurled a stake that tore through the Pact leader's heart and emerged from his back a second before he dusted, a sickly yellow glow began to suffuse the air. Beams of glittering golden light shot out of the runes of the ritual circle and tore into the crypt's walls and ceiling, forming a crazed cat's-cradle pattern.

"Whoa!" Faith yelped: leaping back, she barely avoided being impaled by three of the dazzlingly bright beams. Several more beams skewered half a dozen members of the Pact: the robed vampires shrieked as they burst into flames and crumbled away into piles of ash.

"Guys! What's goin' on?" Faith shouted into her headset mic.

"_What happened?"_ Jonathan came back over the net, sounding out of breath.

"That sumbitch boss-Pact-guy cut my face with the Ritrus Knife thing!" Faith snarled, reaching up with her free hand to wipe an ugly smear of blood from a shallow gash on her cheek. "A few drops a' my blood dripped off his knife an' landed on the fuckin' runes, then _this_ crap started up!"

With a dreadful ripping sound, like tearing meat, the beams vanished and a deep black gouge opened above the centre of the ritual circle, a rift torn in the walls separating realities and filling the air with sickening static, as though a million noxious flies had flown through from some vile plague-infested dimension.

"_Uh, S-Slayer bl-blood has magical properties,"_ Jonathan stammered over the net, _"a-and the Rite was started, even i-if it wasn't completed, s-so I suppose th-that in theory, just maybe—"_

"Yeah, okay, my blood just kick-started some kinda dark mojo, whatever – I kinda need the bottom line, here, Torch!" Faith urgently cut him off as she began warily backing away from the rift. Espying the Tarakan samurai's katana lying abandoned on the floor, she snatched it up on her way past, keeping her gaze fixed on the rift.

"_Good news: the world _**probably**_ isn't going to end."_

"And the _bad_ news?"

"…_I think an M'Kachen demon's gonna show up now,"_ Jonathan whimpered. _"The Rite's being supercharged by the Hellmouth, a-and combined w-with the magical properties of y-your blood—"_

The ground shook at that precise moment, then again, as something stepped out of the rift, which promptly snapped shut behind the newcomer as the runes of the ritual circle faded and died, their power depleted.

There was something magical about the terror that the thing inspired; it was the unnatural aura of something that had crept forth from the nethermost pits of hell and which no mortal being could help but sense and respond to.

In some ways it hurt Faith's eyes simply to look upon the M'Kachen demon: its very appearance told her it was made from no natural substance. The charnel stink of the thing was worse than anything she could have imagined: it reeked of rotting meat and congealed blood, and other less describable and far more loathsome things.

It was easily over two dozen yards tall and must have weighed at least five or six tons, all of it inhumanly powerful over-developed muscle. Its skin was ruddy red and its face savage; horns crowned its bestial head. Great cloven hooves stomped clumsily across the crypt's floor, smashing flagstones and crushing stone coffins with every step it took, trampling and squashing a few members of the Blood Pact along the way.

Vast bat-like wings flexed on its shoulders: it unfurled them, sending a sharp thunder-like _crack!_ echoing throughout the crypt. In one hand it held a great coiled whip in its claws; in the other a terrifying axe bigger than a grown man's body, emblazoned with evil and eldritch runes that hurt Faith's eye when she tried to look at them.

And yet, of all the M'Kachen's features, it was its eyes that Faith knew she would never forget.

Burning with infernal fire, those terrible eyes were pools of infinite darkness out of which gazed a malign and ageless intelligent insanity. Somewhere in those unknowable depths flickered red fires of savage hatred, an insane ferocity that would overthrow the order of the entire universe if it could, in order to try and sate a bloodlust that could never be truly satisfied.

Here was a creature that had looked upon the birth and death of worlds, and might look out on the death of everything. Compared to its life, Faith's own existence was less than the life of a mayfly. Compared to its strength and savagery and cunning, she was less than nothing.

Faith blew out a deep breath.

'_Now_ **that** _looks like a real powerful sucker… real awesome, too.'_ She then grinned wolfishly. _'But I can see it… an' I can fight it, an' I'm gonna_ **win**_. An' even if it kills me… well, hell, who else has seen one a' these things? Almost no one. That's pretty cool, right?_

'_And besides… this thing might be some ultimate badass big-time demon, but am I runnin' away, piss runnin' down my legs an' screamin' like a little girly-girl? Uh-_**uh**_, nope, not me. Yeah, okay: gotta be honest, I'm a li'l bit scared, here. Actually, I'm a _**lot**_ scared. But I ain't totally shook outta my boots, even by this thing.'_ Her grin widened still further, taking on a much more self-confident air. _'So, you just bring it on, you ugly son-of-a-bitch. I'm ready for ya.'_

As if in response to her unspoken thought, the M'Kachen lunged at Faith: leaping aside, the Slayer barely escaped being cloven in two by the demon's enormous axe blade, which chopped straight through the flagstones and deep into the ground beyond.

"Guys! Talk t' me!" Faith snapped into her mic as she ducked to avoid the hissing and cracking thongs of the demon's whip. "How do I kill this thing?"

"_Um – ah – er, er—"_ Andrew yammered, panicking and terrified. _"Uh, c-cut off its l-left b-big toe? N-No, wait, th-that's a Yosmarle demon…"_

"_The roof of its mouth!"_ Jonathan screamed over the net. _"That's it's only vulnerable spot!"_

Dodging the falling axe blade once more, Faith spared a split-second to glance up at the M'Kachen's gaping maw; it opened wide and let out a roar of frustration, and her nose wrinkled in disgust as a rank odour of raw meat and long-dried blood washed over her. "Jeez, Ugly, get some _mouthwash!"_ she shouted in protest, then hit her walkie-talkie's 'send' button. "Torch, you sure 'bout that?"

"_POSITIVE!"_

Faith shook her head as she dodged aside once more. "Oh, _man_… How the hell'm I gonna pull _this_ off…" she groaned to herself.

A shotgun blast rang out; glancing off to her left, Faith saw Xander charging the M'Kachen, Winchester in hand, jacking in a fresh shell as he ran. The demon ignored him as the buckshot pattered ineffectively from its thick hide, its gaze remaining riveted on Faith.

"Ugly's kinda obsessin' over me, here!" Faith shouted into her mic. "Any ideas what _that's_ all about?"

"_Uh, best guess is it somehow knows it was your blood that summoned it here, a-and it knows you're a Slayer,"_ Warren sent back over the net, sounding apologetic.

"I'm open t' suggestions!" Faith grunted, twisting aside and lashing out with her katana to lop off one of the whip's thongs as it narrowly missed her.

"_If you can get clear, Andrew and me can try casting the Web spell on it,"_ Jonathan offered. _"Th-That might slow it down, maybe even hold it in place."_

Glancing over her shoulder, Faith's gaze landed on the dead demon knight. "I got an idea!" she sent over the net. "When I run, I need you guys t' pull a Spider-Man! Ready?"

"_R-Ready!"_ Andrew confirmed.

"Awright – _now!"_ Faith shouted, turning tail and fleeing as the M'Kachen's axe swept down through the space she'd occupied only seconds before. "Tee! Follow me!" she shouted over her shoulder; a second later, Xander fell into step beside her as the M'Kachen slowly accelerated and lurched into a lumbering run.

Skidding to a halt by the demon knight, Faith dropped to her knees beside the corpse and kicked it over onto its stomach. As she did so, she caught a brief glimpse of the M'Kachen being pelted with outsized magical strands of spider webbing that pinned it in place: roaring angrily, the enormous demon began tugging at the webbing, struggling to slowly but surely begin to pull itself free: it would get loose in another few seconds at most.

Releasing her katana and stake and letting them clatter to the flagstones, Faith drew the greatsword from its sheath on the demon knight's back. The weapon was truly enormous: the perfectly mirror-like blade on its own, at six feet long and nearly eighteen inches wide at its base, was bigger than she was, and the hilt added another foot to the sword's overall length.

It was heavy, it was cumbersome, and a human being would have struggled merely to lift it, let alone to wield it in battle.

But Slayers were not human beings.

Quietly grunting in mild exertion as she stood up again, Faith raised the enormous sword, grasping the hilt firmly in both hands. "Tee!" she shouted to the Terminator at her side. "Fastball Special, now! Put me right in that sucker's mouth, try an' avoid the teeth!"

Unhesitatingly obedient, Xander seized Faith firmly by the waistband of her trousers and the scruff of her neck: lifting the Slayer clean off the floor, the Terminator span around – once, twice, thrice, four revolutions in as many seconds, rapidly building speed and momentum all the while – and then he _threw_ her.

Faith hurtled up into the air and disappeared straight into the M'Kachen's gaping maw just as it burst free of the webbing that had bound it in place; instinctively, the demon immediately closed its mouth and the Slayer disappeared from sight.

Malevolent gaze settling on the group by the steps, the demon angled its body toward them and sped back up into a run. Its blazing whip's sole remaining thong snaked out; four Scoobies, two NCIS agents and one US Navy petty officer – the latter by now completely incoherent with terror – instinctively scattered every which way, ducking and dodging aside to escape the whiplash. The whip continued through its arc, colliding with the last remaining handful of six Blood Pact left in the crypt: the vampires screamed with terror as they burst into pillars of flame. The demon ignored their demise, uninterested and uncaring.

Rolling up onto one knee, Gibbs chambered a shell in his riot gun then fired, catching the demon in the chest; pumping the action, he fired again. Tony joined him, the younger agent focusing his attention on the demon's face. Crossbow bolts snarled through the air as Oz and Warren bombarded the demon as quickly as they could with their heavy pump-action crossbows; raising their joined hands, Andrew and Jonathan began babbling an incantation.

Tossing his now-empty riot gun aside, Gibbs reached for the MP5K that dangled from a sling across his back. Flicking the selector switch down to the fully automatic position with his right thumb, he grasped the vertical foregrip with his left hand and opened fire, stitching a series of short controlled bursts from the little machine pistol across the demon's chest, neck and face.

Tony's Ithaca clattered to the floor before he opened fire as well, rapidly emptying his own machine pistol's magazine into the demon's stomach and crotch. Ditching the empty mag, he quickly slapped in a fresh one and resumed firing.

Fresh webbing spewed forth from Andrew and Jonathan's outstretched fingers, and spattered against the M'Kachen. It snarled as it stuck fast once more, tugging with its arms and wings as the web stuck fast, suspended between the crypt's floor and ceiling, and pinned it in place.

From behind the demon, Xander repeatedly fired his Winchester, reloading it every time the hammer slammed down empty, until at last he depleted the collection of shells stockpiled in his jacket's pockets. Discarding the shotgun, he drew his Longslide and began firing, the slugs bouncing ineffectually off of the demon's impenetrable hide.

"Mulgrew!" Gibbs shouted as he reloaded his machine pistol. "Get up those steps and get outta here! _Go! RUN!"_

Sheltering under the steps, Mulgrew was curled up in a little ball with her eyes screwed tightly shut, insensately quivering with terror, completely oblivious to the command.

Roaring, the M'Kachen succeeded in tugging one of its wings free; a second later, the hand clutching its mighty axe escaped the grasp of the web.

"G-Guys?" Andrew whimpered. "Uh, wh-what're we gonna do now? 'Cause, that web isn't gonna hold much l-longer, a-and I'm kinda running low on magic!"

"Yeah, I'm about tapped out, too…" Jonathan groaned in exhaustion.

It was then that something entirely unexpected happened:

The demon's eyes crossed.

A muffled but sickening wrenching sound escaped the demon's mouth. Its squint grew increasingly pronounced, as if it were attempting to peer up its own nostrils. Its mighty axe fell to the floor from its suddenly-nerveless claws, raising a terrible clamour that echoed deafeningly throughout the crypt; its whip followed a second later. Its wings tried to flap like mad, the free one buffeting the air for all it was worth—

And then, with a noisy cracking of breaking bone and a rending of flesh, a gleaming metal spike thrust its way out through the dead centre of the demon's forehead, emerging in a gory eruption of blood and bone and brain even as the demon's eyes began to glaze over, dull and dead, their inner fires put out forever.

Blinking and peering up at the demon's head, Gibbs abruptly realised that it was no spike… it was the very tip of a sword's blade.

By now extremely dead, the demon swayed back and forth for several long seconds like a tree in a hurricane, until at last the demon's incredible weight tore it free of the webbing and it toppled over. Scoobies and NCIS agents alike sprang aside to escape as it crashed to the ground; Andrew yelped in terrified anticipation of the worst as the demon's head smacked into the spot he'd occupied mere seconds ago, missing him by scarcely a single millimetre and shattering flagstones with the force of its impact.

And with that, incredibly, it was all over.

The crypt fell uncannily silent, save for the sound of Andrew quietly starting to cry in shock and relief to find how close he'd come to being crushed to death and that he was, incredibly, still alive after all.

Scarcely daring to draw breath, Tony DiNozzo tiredly rolled over onto his back then slowly sat up, grimacing and groaning as his newly-acquired crop of bumps and bruises screamed at him in protest. When he tried to move his arms and legs, he found that they seemed to have had invisible lead weights tied to them.

Wearily turning his head, Tony saw Gibbs was already back on his feet and busily reloading his riot gun, the metallic clicking noises sounding strangely loud in the quiet of the crypt after it had been filled with the din of battle and dark ritual for so long. Gibbs seemed to be moving in slow motion, every movement lasting an eternity. Tony could just about see Xander on the other side of the dead demon; the Terminator had his pistol trained on the carcass, clearly not willing to take anything for granted just yet where the M'Kachen was concerned.

Turning his head again, Tony saw Oz lying prone on the floor and fumbling to reload his crossbow, which he then trained on the demon, his expression as calm and inscrutable as ever. _'Huh… kinda like Gibbs,'_ Tony distractedly mused. _'Can't believe I never noticed that 'til now…'_

A little way off to the teenage werewolf's right and slightly behind him, Warren and Jonathan had crawled across the floor and had gently tugged a terrified Andrew away from the carcass; both rather wet-eyed, they both now embraced the younger boy to try and comfort him as he buried his face in Warren's filthy and ragged shirt, shoulders heaving as he sobbed. Jonathan's lips moved slowly, so slowly, but Tony was just about able to read what he was saying:

_Faith?_

_Where's Faith?_

The M'Kachen demon's jaw twitched.

Tony moved like a greased lightning bolt, diving for his abandoned MP5K, slapping a fresh magazine into it and training it on the demon in an instant.

The former members of the Justice League of Sunnydale fell over each other as they clumsily scrambled to grab their fallen crossbows, which they soon brought to bear, the weapons held tightly in their trembling grips.

Gibbs chambered the first shell in his riot gun and trained it on the demon's dead unblinking left eye. The demon's head was on its side, its eyes staring glassily at them.

The demon's jaw twitched again.

Tony's ears pricked up and strained for all they were worth. "Do you guys hear that?" he whispered.

"Affirmative."

"Yeah, I got it too, DiNozzo."

"Wh-What the hell _is_ that?"

"I dunno, Jon, but I think we're about to find out."

"Uh, W-Warren? C-Could you take your foot outta my back, please?"

"Oh! Sorry, Andrew, my bad."

"Hey, i-it's all cool, dude."

The sound steadily grew louder, until it was clearly audible over the whispered exchange:

"…heh-heh-heh-heh hee-hee-hee ha-ha-ha oh-yeh-heh-heh-heh-heh yee-hee-hee-hee-hee…!"

Tony's jaw dropped at the sound of very youthful and very feminine giggling echoing from within the M'Kachen demon's mouth. "No _way!"_ he shouted.

The demon's mouth twitched, then again: with a muffled _snap!_ of shattering enamel, its lip was flung aside by a large broken tooth: a slender figure followed soon after, landing clumsily on the floor with a faint squelching sound. Covered from top to toe in a revolting repugnant mix of saliva, blood, grey matter and other truly unspeakable fluids, the figure staggered drunkenly upright, pushing slime-sodden locks of hair out of its eyes and still giggling uncontrollably as it took two wobbly steps forward.

"H-Hey, guys!" Faith the Vampire Slayer managed to gasp out between giggles. "D-Did we win?"

Terminator, NCIS agents and Scoobies alike stared in silence at her.

With a faint half-hissing, half-sucking sound, the enormous greatsword slid out through the demon's mouth and clattered loudly to the flagstones behind Faith.

As if the noise had been their cue, the former Leaguers simultaneously hurled their weapons aside and charged. Andrew was the first to throw his arms around Faith, and hugged her for all he was worth as he wept in relief; Jonathan and Warren followed close behind him, not caring about the stench or grisly nature of the bodily fluids that she was soaked to the skin with.

"Izzat a 'yes'?" Faith asked from the depths of the group hug.

Chuckling, Tony flicked his machine pistol's selector switch to the 'safe' position, then re-slung it across his back. Glancing over, he saw Gibbs shaking his head and grinning as he lowered his riot gun; wearily, Tony walked over to his partner.

"Sooo… we just fought vampires, Boss," Tony said slowly, feeling ready to collapse with exhaustion at any moment. "Real, live – or at least, un-dead – vampires."

Still grinning, Gibbs nodded. "Yes we did, DiNozzo."

"And a giant butt-ugly demon."

"That too."

"_And_ helped save the world."

Gibbs' grin widened. "Feels good, doesn't it, DiNozzo?"

Tony grinned back. "Yeah, it does. Is it always like this?"

Gibbs shrugged. "I dunno, DiNozzo – it's my first time too."

The two agents stared at each other for a long moment, then burst out laughing.

It wasn't all _that_ funny a joke.

But right then, in that time and that place… it was excuse enough to laugh away the fear and stress and uncertainty of the recent battle.

Released at last from the scrum of the former Leaguers, Faith blinked before her gaze alighted on Oz. _"Wolverine!"_ she happily bellowed, and raised her hand for a high-five; grinning, Oz slapped his palm against hers.

"Awesome," Oz said simply, looking pointedly at Faith before nodding at the dead M'Kachen.

"Thanks!" Faith told him, and then she saw Xander.

Whooping with joy and relief, the Slayer broke into a run, sprinting up and over the demon's enormous corpse, and gleefully threw herself at the Terminator, throwing her arms around his neck and wrapping her legs around his waist as she kissed his cheek. _"Ohhhh,_ I love you so damn _much_, Big Man," Faith told Xander, as he enfolded her in his arms. "Wouldn't be here without ya… in _any_ sense a' the words."

Awkwardly, uncertainly, completely lost for words, the Terminator pulled his head back and planted a tender kiss on Faith's slime-coated cheek.

Her grin broadening, Faith cuddled up close to Xander, resting her head comfortably on his shoulder.

Crawling out from her hiding place, Mulgrew shook her head in bemusement as she surveyed the victorious heroes. "Just what the hell did I drink last night…?" she mumbled to herself.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Disclaimer:** The copyright of "Back in Black" is owned by the band AC/DC.

**A/N:** I'm really, really sorry about the delay in posting – real life has been unexpectedly chaotic of late, but has calmed down a bit now; too, it took me ages to get the choreography for the main battle scene just right. Chapter Ten is currently a work-in-progress, and I hope to have it completed fairly soon, as it's a lot simpler by comparison and real life is more or less back to normal for me.

Many thanks to everyone on TtH and FFN who's reviewed: I treasure each and every one of them. Please keep them coming…

I'll be back,

El ;)


	10. Chapter 10

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**No Fate: The Collected Data Files**

**Chapter Ten – Free Spirits Part Eight**

**Monday 2nd June 1997**

**Town Hall, Springton, Arizona**

Holed up on a balcony overlooking the town hall's spacious and airy main foyer, Deputy Gina Buccelli sat on the floor, wearing her now-rumpled uniform, her back against the rail. Outside the building, the shuffling zombies continued their remorseless never-ending droning chorus of death-rattle moans as they pounded slowly and steadily against the barricaded main doors.

An attractive thirty-year-old woman of average height, Gina was slender with an athletic physique that paid tribute to her daily five-mile jog under a baking hot sun. Her eyes and chin-length hair were raven black, matching each other perfectly.

Gina held an Ithaca riot gun in her hands, the stock resting on the floor, her hands holding the barrel equidistant between her parted knees. A .38 Smith and Wesson revolver was holstered on her hip. Her uniform's broad-brimmed 'Smokey Bear' hat sat incongruously atop the balcony rail, and she wearily rested her forehead against the cold steel of the riot gun's barrel, her eyes gently closed, barely able to stay awake.

"Remind me again: what's our ammo situation?" she quietly asked the tall and gangly bespectacled young man sitting beside her.

'_Don't know why I'm bothering to ask…' _she silently mused._ 'Not like we'll have magically got more ammo since he last checked… Still, a girl can always hope… and at least it keeps us both awake…'_

As he finished rustling through the canvas satchel slung over his shoulder and clicked off his torch, Theodore 'Theo' Ward looked back up at Gina, reflexively adjusting his glasses as he did so, and blinked owlishly as he fought to stay awake. "Um, there's another eight shells left for the riot gun, a-and five rounds for your pistol," he informed her. "A-and, of course, um, th-there's the ammunition y-you've already got loaded: that gives us thirteen shells a-and eleven rounds total."

Gina slowly blew out a deep breath. "Thanks."

Several seconds ticked past, the silence only broken by the zombies' unrelenting moans.

"What time is it?"

Theo turned his torch on again and glanced at his watch. "Three-seventeen a.m.."

"Right."

Theo stared solemnly at Gina. "They're gonna get in eventually… aren't they?" he asked at last. "Like last time, in the post office?"

Gina sighed heavily. "Yeah. Only now, unlike in the post office, we've got nowhere else left to run."

Theo nodded. "Okay."

"And, of course, there's the little problem of how even if I somehow take out one zombie with every single shell and bullet we've got, there's still gonna be some left," Gina continued in a resigned tone of voice. "And, quite frankly, I'm nowhere near that good a shot."

"Okay."

"'Okay'? _'Okay'?"_ Gina repeated, lifting her head away from the riot gun's barrel to stare incredulously at Springton's only other currently living resident. "What's _wrong_ with you? I just told you we can't shoot all those things even in the _best_-case scenario, which means that the odds are we're gonna die here, and all you can say is 'okay'?"

Theo shrugged. "Would it help if I panicked?"

Gina blinked as she considered the question. "Well… no, I guess not," she conceded.

"Then the way I figure it, why bother?" Theo asked. "Besides, I'm too tired to panic."

Gina let out a short and low laugh. "Jeez Louise, Theo, you're a regular class act, you know that?"

Theo gave a small self-deprecating smile and shrugged tiredly. "Ehhhn… to quote a very wise man, 'I yam what I yam'."

Gina chuckled at that. "Popeye? Okay, well, whatever works…" She sighed again. "You know, after my divorce, I moved out here 'cause I thought Springton would be nice and safe and _quiet,"_ Gina said bitterly. "I mean, it's a pretty little small town in the middle of nowhere with plenty of space where everyone knows each other – nothing remotely like New York, you know?"

Theo shrugged. "I guess. I mean, my parents only moved here a couple months back for their retirement – I only arrived here a day before, uh… _it_ happened," he trailed off, gesturing vaguely outside, "on break from college, to see how they were settling in."

Gina winced sympathetically. "Some homecoming, huh?"

"Yeah…" Now it was Theo's turn to sigh. "Sooo… you mind if I ask you a kinda personal question?"

"Sure. Anything to stay awake."

"Have you… y'know… got anyone else, outside? Like, family, or friends, old friends…?"

Gina shook her head. "Nope… well, 'cept for a few of my cousins, back in the Big Apple, along with my no-good cheating ex. And Mom, down in Miami."

"Really? Wow, she must have a great time, with all those beaches. I mean, I've never been there, but I've seen it in pictures and movies, a-and it looks nice…"

"Nuh-uh. She's in a home. Just spends all day staring into space. They've tried their best to help her, but no dice. Don't think she's gonna recover from that."

"Oh," Theo said in a small voice. "Sorry."

"Hey, don't worry about it: it's not your fault," Gina assured him. "My family have – well, _had_ now, I guess – a long history of being involved with the Mob; not very successfully, either. Gramps and Dad and my big brothers were all enforcers; by the time I graduated high school, they were also all dead, and Mom kinda lost it. Talk about living freaking stereotypes, huh?"

Theo looked embarrassed: noticing this, Gina gave him a gentle nudge with her elbow. "Like I said, don't worry about it," she assured him. "What about you – you got anyone out there?"

"Umm… I've got a couple friends from college, but no one really beyond them. Mom and Dad were only children, I'm an only child, my grandparents died when I was little…"

"No girlfriend?"

Theo snorted, amused. "Are you _kidding?_ I've never been on a single date in my life: I'm just not the kinda guy that girls like. Girls don't like geeks like me."

"Hey, I'm a girl and _I_ like you," Gina told him casually.

Theo did a speedy double-take. "Huh? _R-Really?"_ he squeaked out in surprise.

"Well, _yeah_ – you're a nice guy, you stay calm in a crisis, you got a pretty good sense of humour, you're getting _really_ good at reloading for me on the run while I shoot, you're smart, you think fast on your feet, you might not be a male supermodel but you're hardly all _that_ bad-looking…" Gina listed off. "Christ, Theo, if Al – that's my ex – had been here instead of you, the rat bastard would've left me to fight those things off and ditched me _long_ before now; _you_ came back for me and rescued my ass back in the post office even when I specifically _told_ you to go save yourself."

Theo essayed a nervous, confused smile. "Uh, th-thanks!"

Gina shrugged. "Hey, you earned every word of that."

"I mean… wow," Theo said softly. "So… errr… d-do you mean to say… if we weren't almost certainly gonna get torn to pieces and eaten by ravenous zombies sometime in the next twenty-four hours, you'd… um… g-go on a date with me, o-or something?"

"Oh, I was thinking of a little _more_ than that…" Gina said with a mischievous smirk, then leaned over to position her lips close to Theo's ear, and began to whisper her reply.

As she whispered, by various stages Theo's eyes widened, his jaw dropped, his cheeks turned bright red, and he became very uncomfortably aware of his trousers suddenly becoming extremely tight and uncomfortable. As Gina finally finished and leaned back again, grinning like a she-demon, Theo turned dazedly to face her.

"Hell with this," said Theo. "We're gonna _live!"_

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Sunnydale Memorial Hospital, Sunnydale, CA**

Gibbs slowly climbed the six flights up the emergency staircase to the roof, and wearily pushed open the heavy metal door at the top.

The rooftop he emerged onto was flat, covered with tar and gravel, spotted here and there with radio antennae and a few air-conditioning condensers. Taking a deep lungful of the relatively fresh air as he crossed to the edge of the roof, he stretched and yawned mightily, relishing the feel of the gentle morning breeze on his face.

"Hey, Gunny."

Gibbs glanced over to see Faith sitting on the parapet a dozen yards or so to his left, her legs dangling over the edge, Xander silently standing sentinel-like a few paces behind her, a brand new box of long-stem roses tucked under his arm. She seemed relaxed, and the strong scent of her vanilla soap and shampoo was carried to his nostrils as the breeze changed direction.

"Hey," Gibbs said simply, strolling over to the Slayer; Xander's head rotated smoothly, gaze riveted on him all the way. Trying to ignore the Terminator's unwavering scrutiny, Gibbs sat down beside Faith, letting his legs hang over the side of the parapet.

"Whatcha doin' up here?" Gibbs asked.

Faith shrugged. "I just… I had this feeling, y'know? Like, I really _need_ t' see the sun come up, after everything we just went through… the world nearly ending an' all."

Gibbs quirked a small smile. "Yeah… me too," he agreed. "You feeling better?"

"Five by five," said Faith. "I hadda spend damn near two hours with the shower on full blast t' get alla the crap from that demon offa me, but it did the trick awright, an' I'm feelin' a _lot_ more human now. Tee had t' break out the thermite t' dispose of my clothes, though – they were _waaay_ beyond salvaging. Still, least my gun's all cleaned up an' back in working order; same with the stake launchers. How 'bout you?"

"Ah, all I needed was a change of clothes," Gibbs replied. "I didn't get covered in blood the way you did."

"Cool. So, how's it goin' with Mulgrew?" Faith asked.

"Docs're checkin' her over right now," said Gibbs. "Should be done in a half-hour."

Faith nodded. "Good. She okay? Least, so far?"

"Yeah, she seems to be."

"Got her head back on straight an' shit?"

"Yeah, she's completely coherent now. Seems she overheard some of the nurses use the phrase 'gang members on PCP'; now she's insisting that that's who her abductors were." Gibbs paused, wincing ever-so-slightly in a manner a human would have missed in the poor lighting.

Slayers, apparently, were rather better at spotting subtle things like that than were humans. "What is it?" Faith asked, staring directly at him.

"She, ah… Mulgrew insists it was just me and DiNozzo who rescued her," Gibbs admitted.

Faith snorted, sounding amused, as she turned back to gaze out at Sunnydale's skyline. "Figures. An' that's gonna be the official line, right?"

"If it's any consolation, I kinda know how you feel. We – NCIS, I mean – usually get ignored while the Bureau – the FBI – get all the credit in press coverage of our bigger cases," said Gibbs. "Even cases the Bureau wasn't involved in."

Faith shook her head. "Ah, don't worry 'bout it," she assured him. "I ain't _that_ big a glory hound. 'Sides, with those NID guys you mentioned after Tee an' me? I'm thinkin' we're better flyin' right down below the radar, y'know?"

Gibbs nodded. "Probably for the best," he agreed.

"What exactly _is_ the big deal with those guys, anyway?" Faith continued. "I ain't too clear on the details. Heck, I'd never even _heard_ of them until you mentioned them."

"Do you know much about the Red Scare, back in the 1950s?" Gibbs asked. "Specifically the House of Un-American Activities, and Joe McCarthy, and the witch hunts."

Faith grimaced. "Yeah, Gramps told me 'bout alla that, when I was little an' still livin' with him – back 'fore Ma got released early on parole. Those stories always scared the crap outta me."

"Well, something you won't find in the average school's history books is that McCarthy had a pal in the Senate, Senator Douglas Kinsey: he took care to stay well out of the limelight," said Gibbs. "Long story made short, Kinsey thought McCarthy had the right general idea but was thinking way too small, and that agencies like the FBI were using kid gloves too much. So, Kinsey pulled some strings, and wound up establishing a brand new agency, one that was much more to his liking."

"The NID," Faith guessed.

"Right. They were charged with national oversight, and given wide-ranging powers – powers that're actually outright unconstitutional by any stretch of the imagination. Now, after Doug Kinsey retired from public office in the Sixties, those powers got reduced a bit, but they're still pretty damned scary.

"Over the last forty years, some presidents – from _both_ parties – haven't liked the NID all that much and tried to shut the bastards down; trouble is, they've got a _lot_ of political pull in D.C., enough that finishing them off for good needed a lot more power than those presidents possessed. Other presidents have loved 'em; hell, there's a couple who probably wouldn't have gotten elected in the first place without the NID greasing a few wheels along the way.

"You know all those rumours about the CIA? Or other federal agencies? Illegal 'phone tappings, assassinations, abductions, falsification of evidence, death squads, conspiracies, stuff like that? Well, nine times out of ten, it's not the CIA or DEA or FBI that're really responsible for that stuff…"

"…It's the NID," Faith finished. "Jeez, they're _that_ bad?"

"Yeah," Gibbs sighed. "They're that bad. Don't get me wrong: all the other agencies have made their fair share of mistakes – including NCIS, if I'm honest – but the NID…"

"…They're what gives all feds an' government spooks a _real_ bad name, huh?"

"That's the size of it."

Faith huffed out a deep breath. "Bottom line this fer me, Gunny: how much trouble could these guys realistically make fer me an' Tee?" she asked.

Gibbs shrugged. "I guess it depends on whether they know about the supernatural or not," he said. "If they _don't_, if they're flying completely blind and think you're both one hundred percent human and just very lucky, very skilled, or both… well, they'll still be a problem, a _big_ problem, but after seeing you two in action? I'm pretty sure you could handle them."

"But if they _do_ know about the supernatural, an' about Slayers, then we're in real deep shit, right?" said Faith. "'Cause they'll just pull out the big guns from Day One."

"Yeah. The NID's used plenty of military assets in the past: if they figure out that Xander's a Terminator, don't be surprised if they come after you two with tanks and gunships. Hell, if they decide they just want you dead, they might decide to sit back and drop Tomahawk cruise missiles on your position: _Xander_ might survive that—"

"—But there's no way in hell that _I_ could," Faith interrupted.

"You got it."

"Crap. Uh… if the NID know 'bout the supernatural, is there any chance they might wanna… I dunno… go all Frankenstein on our asses? Try t' work out what makes Terminators an' Slayers tick, stuff like that?"

"I honestly don't know, Faith," Gibbs said quietly. "I wouldn't put it past them, but… I just don't know, not for certain." Giving a heavy sigh, he turned to face her. "At the end of the day? The best advice I can give you is to watch your back, and be ready to run."

Faith grinned at that. "I been doin' that since I was five years old, Gunny. But… still: thanks, man."

"You take care of yourselves," said Gibbs.

Faith nodded. "You too. You're one heckuva lawman, Gunny – an' you an' Junior did _real_ good over the last couple nights. This stuff might be brand new t' you both, but you handled the whole thing real well."

Gibbs snorted. "Thanks, but don't sell yourself short," he told her. _"You're_ the one who willingly went into that demon's gullet to save ten thousand people – including Mulgrew, DiNozzo and me, and your new friends. You did most of the heavy lifting tonight."

"Heh… guess it's like the song goes: 'We can be he-roes… Just fer one day'," Faith said with a smirk.

Gibbs nodded. "I guess it is," he agreed.

"By the way…" Gibbs paused, fished out a card from his windbreaker, and handed it to the Slayer. "…if you ever need help – with the NID, or the local cops, or the next apocalypse, or whatever – you call me, okay?"

"Thanks, Gunny." Faith's grin widened as she turned to him, tapping the card against her fingertips before carefully tucking it inside her jacket's inner pocket. "I might just take you up on that someday, y'know."

Gibbs gave her a lopsided grin in return. "I'll be ready."

"Oh, hey, nearly forgot…" Faith drew out a folded sheet of paper, torn from a small notebook, and handed it to him. "Same goes fer you guys – you ever need some 'specialist' help, fake IDs, a getaway car or whatever, call us up."

"Thanks – I might just take you up on that someday," Gibbs wryly told her, slipping the note into his wallet.

"Heh. You do that," Faith told him, still grinning as she pulled a small package out of her jacket's right-hand pocket. "Got a li'l souvenir for ya – t' remember good ol' Sunnyhell by," she finished jokingly, holding the package out to him.

Gibbs blinked, surprised. "Thanks," he said gruffly, accepting the package – a slim box wrapped in brown paper and tied up with string. Nimbly untying the knots, he pulled the string and paper away, then removed the box's lid.

"Junior mentioned your Rule Number 9," Faith explained. "Seemed appropriate."

Pulling the compact slim-bladed dagger out of the box, Gibbs slid it free from its tough brown leather sheath. The short blade glittered brightly in the lights of the town below.

"That asshole Juros had it on him," Faith continued. "Torch an' the A-Man took a look at it t' check fer curses an' shit: it's clean, though, nothin' t' worry about. 'S got an enchantment on it t' make sure it always stays sharp, an' it does a li'l more damage than it would if it was just normal steel. Then they started talkin' 'bout Dungeons an' Dragons – said it was a 'Plus-One' weapon, whatever that means."

Gibbs grinned, adjusting his fingers around the dagger's hilt as he got a good feel for the weapon. "Excellent balance… nice and light… it's perfect," he said, sheathing the dagger and turning to Faith. "Thank you."

"Hey, you're welcome – we figured you an' Junior shouldn't leave empty-handed," said Faith. "He's got a rock: last time I saw him, he was still playing with it."

Gibbs looked at her nonplussed. "With a _rock?"_ he asked.

"Yeah – a rock with a mojo on it," Faith said, her eyes glinting with amusement. "The guys whipped it up for him: when ya squeeze it, it glows bright as a flashlight; ya squeeze it again, an' it stops glowing."

Gibbs slowly shook his head as he strapped the sheathed dagger to his belt. "Sorry we didn't get you guys anything."

"Ah, it's cool: you guys're the guests, here," Faith told him. "Besides, been a real pleasure working with ya, Agent Gibbs."

Gibbs nodded. "Likewise… Faith, the Vampire Slayer."

As they looked on, sitting side by side, thin blood-red streaks of light gradually unrolled the darkness across the town, one little bit at a time. The light streamed over the three watchers on the rooftop like a silent gale, dazzling in intensity. Gibbs raised his forearm to cover his eyes as the great red ball turned shadows to fire across the slumbering town.

Gold light slammed into the rooftops, making every one a blinding, silent blazing inferno. It rolled ever onward, gushing into the streets and thundering up the gentle slopes of the little hills, unstoppable and majestic.

"_We_ did that," Gibbs breathed, enraptured, as he lowered his arm.

"Yes we did, Gunny," Faith quietly replied, staring at the rising sun. "We certainly did."

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Portland, Oregon**

The blocks of flats were all over sixty years old, having been built along with many others as part of F.D.R.'s 'New Deal'. Now a clump of run-down crumbling buildings in a run-down crumbling neighbourhood, they were long past their prime, dark and dismal in the early morning light.

No one visited the area; no one even drove through it or near it if they could possibly avoid doing so. Only those too broke or too desperate to live elsewhere dwelt in the dingy and decaying buildings.

Burned-out vehicles littered the road. Clothes hung on washing lines strung between the buildings, left so long they were filthy again.

And, everywhere you looked, there were flies. Dark, bloated, fat-bodied flies. The very air itself seemed to be alive with their swarms.

Four armed men crashed through an empty doorway and stormed into the lobby of one of the tenement blocks. Their boots pounded loudly against the floor of old and cracked tiles, echoing in the high-ceilinged lobby.

Armed with Colt Commando carbines that were older than they were, the stocks jammed tight into their shoulders and their eyes glued to the weapons' sights, the men rapidly advanced through the building and up an emergency staircase. Their weapons held at the ready, they leapfrogged forward with two men always covering while the other two advanced. Bobbing beams of light shone from the Streamlight torches taped under the carbines' barrels, sweeping left and right and up and down as they advanced.

The men wore an unofficial 'uniform' comprised of battered jeans, black t-shirts, tough sturdy work boots, black leather gloves and radio headsets. They were laden with Kevlar vests and bulging multi-pocketed ops waistcoats. All four were in their mid- or late twenties, of varying heights and builds, and anyone glancing at them could immediately tell they kept themselves in excellent physical health.

The tallest and brawniest man carried an M79 grenade launcher on a sling across his back: the chunky weapon looked for all the world like a shotgun with a short and fat stubby barrel. The other three men variously carried a sledgehammer, an industrial pair of bolt cutters, and a 'Harvey Wall-banger' explosive frame charge as their own 'party favours'.

They left the staircase upon reaching the fourth floor, as a tangy stench of cooked blood and ozone filled their nostrils, drowning out even the stink of the swarms of flies buzzing around them. The swarms were bigger and denser now.

The four men silently advanced along the corridor beyond, along the walls of which a series of markings had been crudely and sloppily daubed in dark paint. They couldn't bring their eyes to properly focus on the lettering, which seemed to shift and distort and dance if they tried to do so, until a growing sense of nausea finally forced them to look away.

Under the disturbing writing, someone had nailed up a series of dolls and other children's toys. The lead man, Thomas Kirklee – better known as 'Scouse' – let his gaze linger on a few of the crucified and mutilated dolls as he passed them by, and felt his gorge rise as he realised something that sent shivers up his spine:

Not all of the dolls were dolls.

Choking down the urge to retch, Scouse forced himself to focus on the job at hand.

The stench grew thicker and more overpowering as they stalked deeper and deeper into the building, turning off down first one corner and then a second. Their only light now came from their torches, and their breathing sounded impossibly loud.

At last, they came to a door that was prodigiously covered in runes, the most complex they'd seen so far. The men formed up around it: Scouse to its left, Isaac 'Newton' Cohen to its right, and the two biggest members of their party – Leonard 'Geordie' Bell and Daffyd 'Dave' Curtis – directly in front of the door.

Catching the eyes of each of his mates in turn, Scouse silently held up three fingers, then two, then one—

Acting as one man, Geordie and Dave lashed out in perfect synchronisation and kicked the door off its hinges, knocking the cheap long-rotten wood flying clean across the room beyond. The four men burst into the room a mere second behind the door, fanning out and bringing their weapons to bear.

In the gloom of the open-plan flat's combination living room-kitchen, several thousand eyes simultaneously blinked at them.

Something immeasurably vast began to coil up out of the darkness, extending the flaccid blue-white mass of its bloated body, ropes of toxic spittle drooling from its fanged mouths. Jellied things quivered in the dark spaces of its translucent skin and the flies billowed around it like a cloak.

Scouse's nose spurted blood and his stomach churned as his torchlight flickered over the demon, coming to rest upon its largest eye of all: easily as wide as a truck's hubcap, it was big and round and bloodshot, the slitted sickly yellow iris focusing on Scouse and staring back in return.

Newton's torchlight came to rest upon two bound and nude human figures beside the demon, a middle-aged man and a girl in her early teens. Unhealthily pale in the glaring beam of torchlight, they appeared skinny and malnourished, and couldn't have eaten for several days.

The ropes constricting the captives' limbs had cut deeply into their flesh. Their mouths were covered with filthy rags; their cheeks bulged and their jaws were painfully distended almost to the point of dislocation by their gags' thick packing that completely swallowed their attempts to scream. Above the gags, large terrified eyes darted this way and that.

Limpid greasy coils lashed out of the darkness to encircle one of the bound captives, embraced him, and then crushed the man so hard and so suddenly that he literally burst like a tomato that had been stomped underfoot.

"_SHAKE OUT!"_ Scouse shouted, and shot the vast inhuman thing through its largest eye. The eyeball exploded in a grisly spray of pus and jelly.

The other three men were quick to respond to the order, opening up on full automatic and hosing the demon down with a will. The bullets – exotic hollow-point/tracer hybrids – expanded on impact to nearly three times their size, splintering into four extending 'petals' whose sharp edges tore large fleshy chunks out of the target even as the white phosphorous element ignited, starting little fires within the demon's skin and innards.

A fireball rocketed out of the far corner of the room and struck Geordie square in the chest. The massive man was blasted off his feet and sent flying back into the corridor: he slammed hard against the wall. Those portions of his waistcoat, vest and shirt that were covering his chest were on fire, and Geordie howled as the magical flames burned through to the flesh of his chest: he dropped his carbine and began beating at the blaze.

"Fools!" a male voice sneered triumphantly from the darkness. "None can stand before a Koraxis demon!All shall kneel before me, for I am the deliverer of the _morning star!_ The champion has been destined before time breathed it _first breath!"_

Slapping a fresh magazine into his carbine, Newton brought it up and around to the source of the fireball and the voice. His torchlight revealed a skinny and bearded man – dressed in mottled and patched threadbare robes, eyes glittering with insanity – and he fired two shots in quick succession, double-tapping the mage neatly through the head.

Returning his attention to the demonic abomination as the mage's corpse collapsed to the floor, Newton dodged and ducked as its thrashing tentacles lashed out at him, firing short controlled bursts every time he got a clear shot at it.

"All Bravo callsigns, Bravo Seven-Two – we have contact; repeat, _have contact!_ Primary x-ray at our location – RV on Building Gold Five!" Scouse hastily shouted into his radio, then fired off a short burst at the demon. Its tentacles flicked out in his direction; Scouse nimbly danced aside, then leapt over an up-ended dining chair and fired off another, longer burst.

"Scouse! We've got to fall back, mate!" Newton yelled. "The fuckin' Vampbusters ain't doing the bastard job! We need more fuckin' manoeuvring space!"

"_Shite!"_ Scouse cursed, leaping back to avoid the embrace of another tentacle. "Fine: Dave, grab Geordie and put him the fuck out; Newton, you and me cover!"

**[—]**

Mere seconds later, Dave took a flying leap and landed atop Geordie, the larger man smothering the magical flames with his body and starving them of oxygen.

Rolling off Geordie and onto the corridor's floor, Dave staggered upright and slipped a hand under Geordie's armpit. "Come on, big man!" Dave roared. "We've gotta go!"

"Oh, aye, mun…" Geordie groaned, struggling up and rubbing distractedly with his free hand at the pink fire-scoured flesh on his chest. "Ah'm oop, Ah'm fookin' oop. Shite, this hurts, mun!"

No sooner had they begun lurching off down the corridor than Newton rocketed out of the doorway, facing backwards and blazing away as he collided with the wall. His carbine clicked empty, and he rolled out of the way just in time as Scouse scurried back in a crouch beneath the demon's flailing tentacles.

"Fall back to the stairs! _Now!"_ Scouse shouted as he smacked a full magazine home into his carbine.

"Where's our fuckin' backup!" Newtown called over the now-deafening buzzing of the flies as they fell back. "When do they get here?"

"Not feckin' soon enoff! We've gotta slot it by ourselves, or we're dead feckin' meat!" Scouse replied.

The demon was slowly slithering out into the corridor, distending its hideous body to fit through; Scouse emptied his carbine into it, shredding skin and exploding eyeballs to little apparent effect beyond making the demon pause, blinking repeatedly as if confused.

"_Dave!"_ Scouse snapped urgently. "You an' Geordie, 'old up at the door, man!"

"Right – I 'ope you knows what you're doin', though!" Dave shouted back.

"Get on the feckin' Wombat Gun – soon as youse gets a clear shot at the shitester, nail it with white phos while we cover you!" Scouse ordered.

Dave grinned evilly as he removed his arm from around Geordie's shoulder and unslung the M79. "Sounds llike a pllan!" Dave agreed, snapping open the grenade launcher and slipping a white phosphorous grenade home into the breach.

A split-second later, Newton and Scouse skidded to a halt on either side of the doorway to the staircase. Dave snapped his launcher shut and brought the stock up to his shoulder; beside him, Geordie was lying on his belly, breath rasping painfully as he brought his carbine to bear on the demon and opened fire. Slotting full magazines into place in their own weapons, Scouse and Newton followed suit. The demon had fully emerged into the corridor by now, and filled it completely as it rapidly slithered across the tatty carpet toward them.

"_Dave!"_ Scouse screamed. "Feckin' mallet the fecker already!"

At that moment, Dave pulled the trigger: there was a dull _bloop_ of displaced air as the Wombat Gun fired, and the grenade sailed through the air, narrowly avoiding the demon's flailing tentacles, to land squarely in one of the beast's larger gaping maws.

There was a blinding flash as the chemicals within the grenade ignited and the demon screamed, a drawn-out and truly inhuman high-pitched sound. In their bobbing beams of torchlight and through the demon's translucent skin, the four men could see the grotesque sight of a fountain of burning phosphorous spreading through the demon's belly.

Still the demon screamed, not pausing to draw breath. The flies buzzed ever louder and louder, flocking around the demon until they obscured it completely—

—And then at last, with a damp and corpulent eruption, the Koraxis demon exploded.

Dark red flames, fringed with black, roared up to the ceiling for a second or two before guttering out and dying away.

There was no sign left of the demon and the flies: only a blackened scorch mark stretching down the corridor remained to show where they had been. Scouse realised with great relief that the stink of dark magic had vanished, and swiped at the blood collected on his upper lip.

"Dave?" Newton said quietly.

"Mmm?"

"That was _fucking_ good shooting."

"Oh, you're wellcome," Dave modestly replied, slinging the Wombat Gun across his back and picking up his carbine again. "You gonna be allright, Geordie?"

"Why-aye, man," Geordie groaned. "Just gi' us a minute, a'right? Ah'm bastard chinstrapped from that fookin' fireball."

Feeling drained and listless as the adrenaline wore off and left his system, Scouse keyed his radio. "All callsigns, Bravo Seven-Two – one primary and one secondary x-rays confirmed destroyed," he reported. "One T3 and one Yankee confirmed in Gold Five; out."

One by one, the four men picked themselves up, then wearily walked – or in Geordie's case, staggered drunkenly – back down the corridor.

**[—]**

"A-Are you guys English?" Sofia Felix stammered a few minutes later, looking up at Dave.

Having been freed from her bonds and had her wounds treated for infection, the teenage girl had been plied with Galaxy bars, which she'd promptly wolfed down; furnished with her rescuers' nicknames; and handed Dave's spare t-shirt, which hung down almost to her knees and was long and baggy enough to look like a dress on her. She and Geordie had then been helped downstairs, and the little party now sat, exhausted, out on the front steps of the tenement block: more men and women – armed and attired identically to Scouse's team – were inside.

"Y-Your accents – th-they're sure not American…" Sofia continued. "So… _are_ you English?"

"How_ dare _you!" Dave boomed, sounding indignant but giving her a comforting smile and a playful wink. "I happen to be _Wellsh_, I'llll have you know. Now, _that_ llot over there," he continued, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at his three companions, _"they're_ Engllish."

Sofia frowned, looking puzzled. "So… if you're not English, where're you from?"

"Wales."

Sofia brightened up at that. "Oh, _right_ – like Princess Di, yeah?" she enthused. "But isn't that part of England? Wow, it must be _so_ cool to live next to Stonehenge! …Hey… wait… Dave, why're you banging your head against that wall?"

**[—]**

**Sunnydale National Airport, Sunnydale, CA**

Beyond the departure lounge's floor-to-ceiling windows, the runways were a riot of activity, with airliners taxiing in from landing or preparing to take off, luggage trains cruising every which way across the tarmac. For an airport in such a small town so early in the morning, the lounge itself was surprisingly busy – so busy that the little knot of two NCIS agents and six Scoobies went almost unnoticed amid the hustle and bustle, although Gibbs and Tony's NCIS windbreakers attracted some mild curiosity from those travellers who passed them by.

Dressed in clean clothes, with their various injuries treated, all of them save Xander showed signs of being greatly fatigued by their recent ordeal. Despite this, they were in a satisfied and exuberant mood, spirits buoyed up by the flush of success.

"I gotta say, you kids have been great, you really have," Tony said with a broad grin.

"Hey, dude, you weren't so bad yourself," replied Warren, grinning back.

Choked up with emotion, Andrew shook Gibbs' hand. "I-It's been an _honour_, sir," the boy managed to stammer out.

"Likewise," said Gibbs, and gave him a nod and a small but sincere smile, which Andrew shyly returned.

"Thanks for that Dingoes CD – I'll send you an email once I've had a chance to play it," Tony told Oz. "Abbs might like it, too."

Oz nodded. "Cool – thanks, man."

"Mulgrew already heading for D.C., huh, Gunny?" Faith asked.

"Yeah, DiNozzo ran her over to Fort Bank after the hospital finished with her and put her on an Air Force Gulfstream that was making a return trip to the East Coast," Gibbs explained. "I was finishing up at the crime scene—" most of the Scoobies promptly either smirked or abruptly looked carefully poker-faced, "—about then; by the time he got back, we had a few last details to take care of before we were ready to pack up our gear."

"Are you guys gonna be okay with, y'know, y-your bosses?" Jonathan asked.

"Ah, we'll figure something out," Tony assured him. "Right, Boss?"

"Yeah, I think we can pull that off," Gibbs agreed.

"You sure you've gotta go? 'Cause, hey, we could use all the help we can get, and you guys're real pros," Warren asked, sounding hopeful.

Gibbs shrugged helplessly. "Sorry," he said simply. "Still, if anything big comes up again, just call."

"Hey, you guys take care of yourselves, now," said Faith.

"You too," Tony replied, patting Xander on the shoulder. "The ol' Xandernator here'll help out with killing stuff – right, big guy?"

"Affirmative," Xander agreed, completely deadpan.

A disembodied female voice came over the tannoy, rendered barely comprehensible by the distorting echoes from the cavernous lounge.

"Well, that's our flight," said Gibbs. "We've got maybe five minutes before we gotta go…"

Andrew's eyes widened. "Oh! Wait, I can't believe I nearly forgot!" he cried, delving his hand into his jacket pocket and pulling out a small camera. Frantically looking around, he darted over to where a tall and regal-looking bald Jamaican man wearing a smartly-cut grey John Phillips suit and carrying a single briefcase had just emerged from the arrivals lounge nearby.

"E-Excuse me, sir!" Andrew stammered, dashing over to him, holding out the camera. "Uh, c-could you please please _please_ take a picture o-of my friends a-and me before their flight's called? It won't take a second, I _promise."_

The man considered the request, noting the half-pleading, half-panicky expression on the boy's face, then nodded. "Oh, alright," he agreed.

"Thank you, you're a lifesaver!" Andrew babbled gratefully, leading him back to the group and handing over the camera. "Uh, j-just press here, a-and it'll go," he explained, gently tapping one of the camera's buttons.

"Very well… now, if you could all just move in a little closer…" the man directed them, "…a little closer… good, that should do it." There was a faint _bleep_, then a small flash of light.

"I really can't thank you enough for this," Andrew gushed, enthusiastically pumping the man's hand.

The man shook his head and smiled as he handed back the camera. "Oh, you're quite welcome, young man," he said, before gingerly extracting his hand from Andrew's grasp and making good his escape.

"I-I'll, uh, I'll make sure you guys get copies of this," Andrew said as he turned to Gibbs and Tony. "Just as, y'know, a little souvenir."

"Yeah, kinda like when Doc Brown and Marty McFly had their picture taken next to the Hill Valley clock when they were in 1885 in _Back to the Future Part 3,"_ Jonathan helpfully added.

"Oh, yeah – I _love_ that scene!" said Tony. "Man, that was a _great_ movie…"

**[—]**

The Jamaican man shook his head slightly, smiling wryly to himself at the teenage boy's antics as he headed for the exit. Various parties waited there, holding up signs with names on; spotting a casually-dressed cab driver holding a sign with **'Dr. S. Zabuto'** on it, he headed over.

"I am Zabuto," the Watcher announced.

The driver nodded, and tucked the sign under his arm. "Right this way, sir," he said, before leading the way outside to where his taxi stood waiting.

**[—]**

Briefcase open on the seat beside him, Zabuto leafed through sheets of notes as the cab wound its way through what passed for Sunnydale's morning rush-hour traffic. As he drew out a fresh sheaf of papers, a small photograph fell out of them and landed in his lap, and he picked it up.

Kendra's smiling face looked back at him from a beautiful sunny day. Her favourite stake, Mr Pointy, was held loosely in her right hand as she crouched on a sunlight green hillside. Casually dressed and covered in sweat though she was, she nevertheless looked every inch the lethal huntress she had been, full of life and visibly brimming with eager energy.

'_I took this only a week after she returned from Sunnydale that first time,'_ Zabuto silently mused, feeling a deep and terrible wound ripping open in his heart once more, his eyes beginning to prickle uncomfortably. _'She'd just thwarted that dark mage, Helgrund…_

'_She learned so much from Rupert's charge, Slayer Buffy: she came back from that Hellmouth so energised, so much more alive. Ah, Kendra… you were one of the greatest of Slayers… I failed you once, my daughter, but I _**won't**_ fail you again: this much I swear. Your body _**will**_ yet rest undisturbed in the City of Slayers, safe with your sister-Slayers until the end of time itself.'_

The cab abruptly lurched to a stop. Snapped out of his painful reverie and blinking away the moisture that had just begun to pool in the corners of his eyes, Zabuto looked up and around.

They'd stopped at a crossroads in the warehouse district, halted by a glaring red traffic light. Zabuto frowned: try though he might, he couldn't see anyone around – no other motorists, no pedestrians, nobody.

The cab's driver suddenly whirled around in his seat; Zabuto barely had time to notice the gleaming silver signet ring that the driver had slipped on his finger, to register the flash of matt black polymer as he whisked something out from under his jacket—

The Tarakan assassin pulled the pistol's trigger over and over again as quickly as he could: at barely four feet from his target, he was unable to miss. The suppressed Glock 19 coughed with each discharge, until at last the slide locked back on an empty magazine: ejecting it, the Tarakan slapped in a fresh one, and examined the results of his handiwork.

The back of the cab looked like the inside of a slaughterhouse. Zabuto's blood had splashed everywhere, coating the windows, rear windscreen and seat.

The Watcher himself lay slumped limply where he'd been flung back against the seat, with fifteen bullets in his head and chest; he hadn't had time to cry out. The photograph of Kendra fell free from his lifeless hand, and fluttered slowly to the floor.

Ignoring his blood-spattered appearance, the Tarakan replaced the Glock in his shoulder holster, then climbed out of the cab and walked calmly away. When he was a good thirty yards or so down the street, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small remote control: extending the aerial, he hit a switch.

The cab exploded in gouts of flames, flinging out debris in all directions.

The photograph of Kendra landed in front of the assassin's feet, ablaze and starting to curl. The dead Slayer continued to smile cheerfully through the flames, until the assassin stepped on the photograph, contemptuously grinding it into the dirt as he continued on his way.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**The Council of Watchers' Headquarters, London**

Charles Caulderhale snatched up the receiver before the 'phone could finish its second ring. "Yes?" he snapped, then listened intently for several seconds. "…Right… Good… Yes, the money is waiting in the usual account. Goodbye."

"Zabuto has been taken care of, then?" James Roberts laconically drawled from his seat on the other side of Caulderhale's mahogany desk.

"Not five minutes ago," Caulderhale confirmed.

"Why not have your Tarakan off that Giles boy while he's in town?" John Healy suggested from his seat next to Roberts.

Caulderhale suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. _'God save us from simpleton Irish thugs…'_ he silently mused, _'…if it weren't for Scotsmen like Roberts and myself, this whole damn Council would have collapsed centuries ago. Englishmen like Travers and Edmund Giles are no good, and the Welsh are worse than the Irish… Hell, Terrence over there might have the right ideas, but he's still as big a cretin as his fellow Sassenachs.'_ "Because, John, young Giles is an embarrassment to the liberals so long as he's alive," he patiently explained aloud. "He's living proof of what happens when one gets too emotionally attached to one's Slayer; and when a Slayer is inadequately and incorrectly trained."

"Indeed," Terrence Harcourt-Smyth agreed from his seat the other side of Healy. "Quite frankly, Slayer Buffy was a disaster; her associates – untrained schoolchildren, for the most part – were often needed to save her life, or played key roles in preventing the end of the world. A _proper_ Slayer should need no help save that which her Watcher provides – and perhaps a Hunter Force team in extreme circumstances."

"Even worse, young Giles permitted Slayer Buffy's… _liaison_ with that Angelus monster," Roberts growled. "No one's going to forget _that_ in a hurry."

"Leaving young Giles alive undermines his father and the other liberals, like Gibson and Parkes," Caulderhale continued. "Zabuto, on the other hand, being one of Travers' strongest supporters, and firmly in the traditionalists' camp… well, _his_ death will help to weaken Travers' position in particular, and the traditionalists' in general by extension."

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Springton, Arizona**

With a final _crunch!_ of splintering timber, the makeshift barricade gave way under the pressure of dozens upon dozens of bodies pressing against the city hall's front doors. Clumsily clambering over the wreckage of desks, lengths of two-by-four and the doors themselves, the zombie horde slowly swarmed into the lobby area.

A deafening explosion of sound and smoke filled the lobby. One of the leading zombies slumped to the floor, most of its head blasted clean away.

Leaning over the balcony on the upper floor, Gina pumped the action of her Ithaca riot gun and fired again, the buckshot shell tearing down into another zombie and dropping it. Again and again she pumped and fired, pumped and fired, felling a zombie with every shot, until the Ithaca's hammer slammed down on an empty chamber with a loud _click_.

"Reload!" Gina shouted, passing the riot gun to Theo behind her. Drawing her revolver from its holster, Gina took aim and began firing. A repetitive metallic _click-click-click_ faintly sounded behind Gina, interrupted every so often by rustling sounds as Theo rummaged in his satchel for fresh shells.

"Trade!" Theo yelled in Gina's ear over the din of gunfire as she emptied her revolver's fifth chamber. Giving a curt nod, she accepted the riot gun and handed over her revolver; taking aim once again, she squeezed the Ithaca's trigger and a zombie promptly collapsed on the floor, only to be trampled scant seconds later by more zombies lurching through the gaping doors. _Click-click-click_ sounded again, as Theo quickly fed fresh rounds into Gina's revolver, while the riot gun thundered over and over again.

"Trade!" Gina eventually shouted, swapping the now-empty riot gun for her revolver once more as the zombies shambled towards the barricade at the foot of the staircase, pressing against it and threatening to burst through. Gina lined the sights up on the slack-jawed face of Mr Poyer, the owner of the local store; blood, bone and brains spattered across the wall as she squeezed the trigger.

A _rustle-rustle_ _click-click-click_ told Gina that Theo was reloading the Ithaca as quickly as he could with their last three 12-gauge shells; she shifted aim, lining up on old Mrs Ellis, a retired schoolteacher, fired; _rustle-rustle_ _click-click-click_; sweat streaming unchecked down her face by now, Gina aimed again and fired, dropping Her Honour the Mayor Rachel Willard Junior.

"Trade!" Theo shouted. Instinctively, Gina handed him her half-empty revolver and accepted the riot gun without even looking at him, aimed at Father Adams and fired—

In a stunning crescendo, the whole world seemed to erupt with the sound of gunfire, as dozens of single shots were fired in rapid succession and blended together to form a solid wall of sound. Gina saw the zombies twisting and jerking under the savage onslaught from behind; within a matter of seconds, none remained upright in the lobby below.

The firing stopped, and for a moment an unnatural silence fell upon the tableau, the sound of magazines being changed and weapons made ready drifted to Gina and Theo's ears.

"Clear!"

"Clear!"

"Clear!"

"Moving!"

"Go, go, go, go, _go!"_

A split-second later, nine armed men and women burst into the lobby, their weapons up and snapping around. While they were mostly clad in civilian clothes, the newcomers were uniformly dressed, and carried themselves with a professional military bearing that left Gina unconsciously thinking of them as soldiers.

Each soldier wore jeans, sturdy-looking black boots, black leather gloves with padded knuckles, a t-shirt and a thick leather jacket, over which was strapped a multi-pocketed waistcoat that was stuffed to bursting with ammunition, grenades and other bits and pieces. Each soldier wore a radio headset, a microphone held suspended before his or her lips.

A zombie raised its hand, uttering a low groan and stretching feebly as it tried to reach for one of the new arrivals. The man paused, levelled his carbine – an old-model Colt Commando that looked older than he was, Gina vaguely noted – and calmly squeezed the trigger, a mild _crack!_ echoing through the lobby as the zombie that had been Mr Olsen slumped limply back to the floor.

Gina gaped down at the soldiers as they stormed through the lobby, booted feet pounding against the polished hardwood floor and trampling over dead bodies, pausing every so often to fire a shot or two into the head of any zombie that dared to so much as twitch.

The soldiers smoothly split into two fire teams, one of four soldiers and the other of five, manoeuvring with fluid and practiced ease. The smaller fire team peeled off to start searching the offices on the ground floor, while the other clambered over the barricade at the foot of the staircase and began heading up as they shouted warnings and updates back and forth.

"Clear!"

_Crack!_ "Clear here!"

"Clear!"

"Alpha Three Zero Charlie, this is Alpha Three Zero Alpha, send sitrep, over."

"Den, on yer right!"_ Crack!_

"Why-aye, thanks, man!" _Crack-crack!_ "Clear!"

"Copy that. Alpha Three Zero Alpha, out."

"Watch yer fuckin' fire, we got a couple of live ones up there!"

Trembling as she felt the adrenaline start to bleed out of her system, Gina stood up and donned her 'Smokey Bear' hat. Her riot gun wasn't quite pointing at the soldiers, but wasn't exactly aimed at the floor either.

She felt something tug at her hip; briefly glancing down, she saw that Theo – who was still behind her – had slipped her now-reloaded revolver back in its holster on her hip. Looking back up at the approaching soldiers, she slowly released a deep breath, and felt her hammering heart start to slow down at last.

One of the soldiers stepped forward, whipping his left hand through a brief series of abrupt hand gestures while his right kept a firm hold of his carbine's pistol grip, the barrel aimed safely down at the floor. The other four members of the fire team promptly headed off to search the building's upper floor; seconds later, Gina began to hear a clatter of doors being kicked in followed by shouts of _"Clear!"_

A man in his late twenties, the soldier was apparently quite unfazed by his recent experience. At a height of around six feet and with his athletically muscular build, he towered over Gina by a good several inches, though the expression of polite curiosity on his handsomely boyish face suggested that at least he had no intention of trying to intimidate her.

"I'm Hastings," the soldier offered by way of introduction, his refined and elegant cut-glass English accent somehow at odds with the focused and controlled aggression he and his troops had displayed only seconds earlier. "Are you two alright?"

Gina nodded. "I'm fine," she said, still barely able to believe what had just happened.

Theo stepped out from behind Gina, and she saw that his eyes were huge behind his glasses. "Uh, y-yeah… I'm-I'm okay, t-too," he stammered.

"Glad to hear it. Can you tell me when all this—" Hastings gestured towards the heaps of deceased zombies down in the lobby, "—began, Officer…?"

"Buccelli. _Deputy_ Gina Buccelli, Springton sheriff's department," Gina gently corrected him.

Hastings gave her a small self-deprecating smile. "My apologies, Deputy."

Gina grinned back at him, finally lowering the riot gun's muzzle and flicking the safety catch on. "No problem, sir," she assured him.

"I'm, ah, Th-Theo Ward," Theo stammered, awkwardly proffering his hand. Smiling politely, Hastings shook it. "B-but my friends c-call me 'Theo'."

Hastings looked puzzled and amused as he released Theo's hand. "I'm sorry?"

Theo blushed and ducked his head. "Uh, I m-meant it's sh-short for 'Theodore'."

"Ah, I see now." Hastings turned back to Gina. "Now… can either of you tell us when this outbreak began, please?"

"Uh… that would've been Saturday night," Gina replied. "My boss, Sheriff Kraatz, radioed in to say he'd found a girl – a teenage girl, I think – just outside the town, lying unconscious by the road. He said he was gonna take her to Doctor Turner's house so the doc could take a look at her, but he didn't sound, y'know, worried or anything.

"About an hour later, the sheriff radioed me again. He was screaming something about the girl attacking him and Turner, and I heard some gunfire, then he just dropped off the air…" she broke off, shaking her head.

"Everything went to hell after that, sir. I drove over to Turner's place; I found the sheriff and Turner were both dead, 'long with Turner's neighbours, and this girl was… w-was _eating_ parts of them…" Gina closed her eyes and looked down, forcing herself to take deep breaths. "Sorry, but after that it's all kind of a blur…"

A gloved hand patted Gina on the shoulder. "It's alright, Deputy – that's plenty of information," said Hastings. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry for what you've both endured."

The _tramp-tramp-tramp_ of booted feet heralded the return of Hastings's fire team. "Top floor's all clear, Boss," reported a giant black man, who was easily three or four inches taller than Hastings.

"Thanks, Tiny," Hastings replied. "Let's head outside and finish the sweep, shall we?"

Tiny and the other three soldiers nodded. "Boss," they chorused in near-unison.

Hastings turned back to Gina and Theo. "Deputy Buccelli, Mr Ward, I leave it entirely up to you to decide if you want to venture outside with us or not. I readily understand you've no particular reason to trust us, and if I were in your shoes, I know that I certainly wouldn't either.

"However, I should warn you that we'll burn down this building – and the rest of the town as well – sometime in the next hour or so to ensure the complete destruction of that lot," Hastings gestured towards the scattered remains of the zombies in the lobby below. "So, I recommend you vacate the premises before we do so."

"W-why are y-you gonna burn down the town?" Theo quavered as he and Gina fell into step with the soldiers and headed for the staircase.

"Our standing orders are to ensure that there is absolutely no possible chance of a secondary outbreak," said Hastings. "That means we incinerate every single piece of contaminated bio-matter – skin, bones, internal organs, fluids, the lot. We don't want to see this sort of nightmare happen again. Razing the town ensures a clean sweep. Besides, I doubt anyone would willingly choose to live here again after… after _this._"

Gina shivered. "Sounds good to me," she said quietly.

Theo slowly shook his head. "That's not the only reason, though – is it?"

"True enough," Hastings admitted.

"What _is_ the other reason, then?" Gina asked, shooting Hastings a suspicious glance.

"Over the past couple of centuries, there have been a number of attempts to… _weaponise_ these things," Hastings explained, grimacing as if the words had left a foul taste in his mouth. "These attempts have been made by various national governments, private companies, and solitary individuals I can only describe as 'mad scientists'.

"Every single such effort has ended in disaster, and often with heavy casualties among the nearest civilian population centres. The only silver lining is that, sooner or later, nearly anyone moronic enough to experiment on zombies ends up getting eaten by their own test subjects."

Gina's blood ran cold at Hastings's words as they emerged into the main street.

"Y-you think that's what happened here?" Theo stammered.

Hastings shook his head as he strode towards the vans, waving off his fire team to join the rest of the force clearing the street. "I've honestly no idea," he admitted. "We'll have to gather more intel before we'll be able to determine that – and frankly, that might prove impossible. It usually is," he added glumly.

Two dark blue Range Rovers and a pair of unmarked white Ford Transit vans were slewed across the street. Dozens of prone zombies were scattered all over the town, sporting gunshot wounds to their heads or decapitated outright. Several more soldiers were patrolling the area, firing off a shot or two every so often whenever they identified a stray surviving zombie.

"Bel!" Hastings shouted.

A pretty brunette woman in her late twenties jogged over, her carbine's stock nestled in her shoulder and clearly ready for use. "Found some survivors, Jeremy?" she asked cheerfully.

"Yup," said Hastings. "I need you to check them over."

"Can do." Slinging her carbine across her back, Bel pulled a small oval-shaped stone from one of her waistcoat's pouches and turned to Gina and Theo. "Now, just relax: this won't take a moment, and you won't feel a thing – promise!" she added, giving them a friendly grin.

"Uh, okay," Gina replied, feeling a little overwhelmed and puzzled.

"Just hold still," Bel said. Holding the stone up level with Gina's eyes, Bel muttered a few words under her breath; Gina felt the hairs on the back of her neck tingle as the Englishwoman did so. The stone began to glow, emanating a silver light that gently washed over Gina; slowly, Bel brought the stone down until it was about level with Gina's midriff.

"Right, you're all clear," Bel told Gina, then turned to Theo and began to repeat the process.

Baffled, Gina glanced around, trying to take in everything that was happening. Two fire teams of soldiers were in the process of effecting entry into a couple of houses, blasting open locks with shotguns and storming inside. The third fire team was patrolling the street, checking every downed zombie to make sure it was dead.

Hastings had walked a dozen yards or so away and was in earnest conversation with a ginger-haired man; Gina couldn't hear much of what they were saying, and understood little of what she _could_ make out: _"…seal off…" "…perry-check…" "…slotted six…" "…send sitrep…" "…don't want to basha up here if we can avoid…" "…sharpen parangs…" "…refill ammo scales…"_

"Okay, you're done," Bel said, snapping Gina out of her reverie. Bel whispered a few words, and the stone in her hand stopped glowing.

"Uh… wh-what _was_ that?" Gina asked.

"I was checking you two for any signs of infection," Bel said calmly, slipping the stone back into its pouch and gripping her carbine with both hands again. "You're both clean, nothing to worry about."

"But… but… what was that stone-thing?" Theo asked.

"Oh, just a minor piece of magic," said Bel.

Gina shook her head, incredulous. "You're saying that magic's real?"

Bel grinned, plainly amused. "What – you can handle zombies being real, but not magic?"

"Err… huh." Gina rocked back on her heels. "I, uh… I guess I never thought of that," she conceded. "So, you're a—?"

"One sec," Bel interrupted, half-turning and levelling her carbine to fire off two quick shots; a zombie that had just begun to twitch promptly slumped, a pair of holes neatly drilled in the centre of its forehead. Lowering the carbine, Bel turned back to Gina and Theo. "Sorry, you were saying…?"

"Umm… i-is 'witch' the correct term, or-or do you prefer 'mage'?" Theo asked.

Bel shrugged. "Meh: either's fine."

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Sunnydale High School, Sunnydale, CA**

"Alright: whadda we gotta take care of – if anything?" Faith asked, as the Scoobies variously sat at or slumped across the main study table.

"W-Well, it was kinda like D&D in that crypt – kill the bad guys and loot them for treasure," Andrew said, gleefully admiring the large stack of weapons, rings, gloves, amulets, bracers, gauntlets, and other assorted items that were piled up at one end of the table. The demon knight's suit of full plate armour and helmet were laid out in the weapons cage.

"Yeah, though we need to check all of this stuff out properly before we try to, y'know, use it or anything," Warren pointed out. "Finding out the hard way that something's cursed would suck big-time. We need to research and we need to cast 'Identify' spells to work out what we've got, what we can use and how, what we need to destroy, and stuff like that."

"But not today," Faith insisted. "You guys're bushed; hell, Slayers only need, like, three or four hours' sleep per night, tops, an' _I'm_ about ready ta hit the sack."

Oz nodded. "Yeah, this stuff'll keep fer another day," he agreed.

"Soon as we're done here, guys, _please_: go home an' get a solid eight hours," Faith continued. "If ya need someplace else to crash – so's you don't need to answer awkward questions from your 'rents, or whatever – then, uh… well, Tee an' me gotta couple beds in the spare room at our place, an' a _real_ comfy couch," she finished awkwardly, fumbling over the words.

The former Justice Leaguers exchanged openly surprised glances at that, and even Oz raised an eyebrow. "Uh, thanks, Faith," Warren finally stammered. "That's… well, wow."

"Look, uh… it's really not that big a deal," Faith said quietly, looking down at the tabletop. "Um… so… there anything else we need t' talk about?

"I can't wait to take a good look at that katana you got from the samurai assassin, Faith," Andrew said eagerly, then paused to release a loud yawn. "Sorry, 'scuse me… but, yeah, I'm pretty sure I've seen it somewhere i-in one of Mr Giles' books…"

"Talking of books, I think I got something th-that we might not wanna leave for later," Jonathan spoke up. "Y'know you told us about your Slayer dream yesterday? The one with Bob the T-800? I think I _might_ have worked out who those allies he mentioned are – or will be, or, well… you get the idea."

Faith perked up at that. "Yeah?" she said, intrigued. "Okay, whatcha got, Torch?"

"Well, at first I thought it had something to do with Arthurian legend, what with the whole Excalibur connection," Jonathan began, pulling a large book out of his backpack and setting it on the table. "But th-then, i-it occurred to me that Bob said these people have a _picture_ of Excalibur that's important to them… and I remembered a-a History project I did last year, and, well… bits and pieces started to fit together for me, and I did some digging around last night… or-or this morning… or… anyway, I couldn't sleep after that fight, so I did some research and found this.

"See, there was this group," Jonathan continued, rapidly flipping through the book, "a-and I remembered reading that, when they were new, th-they needed, like, an icon, a-a symbol that suited them. So, the group's founders, they thought it over, and one of the guys came up with the idea of _this_—" Holding the book out, Jonathan tapped a photograph of a crude pencil sketch. "—Excalibur, falling from the sky and surrounded by fire."

Faith nodded. "Sure seems like that fits with what I saw in my dream."

"However, then they took the sketch to another dude who was supposed to make, y'know, shoulder patches a-and cap badges and stuff based on the drawing," Jonathan said, growing excited. "B-But the sketch isn't all that clear, y'know? So, the guy got the wrong idea – he thought those were _wings_, not _flames!_ A-And when he was done, he came up with _this…"_

Jonathan turned the page, then tapped another photograph. "This is known as 'the Winged Dagger'. It belongs to _these_ guys," he added, indicating another photograph on the opposite page.

"Huh… well, hell, I never saw _that_ coming," Faith said, still staring down at the book. "Catchy motto," she commented.

Jonathan offered her a nervous smile. "Uh, y-yeah, I guess so…"

Faith glanced up at him. "Hey, d'you know if Slayers have a motto?" she asked.

Jonathan shook his head. "I-I don't think they do, no."

"Then I'm borrowing this one," Faith said, grinning.

"Um… what motto's that?" Warren asked, craning his neck to try and see the photo more clearly from his seat across the table.

"Somethin' short, sweet, simple, and in good old fuckin' English – no Latin or Ancient Sumerian or some other dead language," said Faith. "'Who Dares, Wins.' Now is it just me, or does that sound like it was _made_ fer Slayers?"

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Stirling Lines, Hereford, England**

**22nd Special Air Service Regimental Headquarters**

The bunker complex was built over forty feet underground, safely hidden away from conventional attack, nuclear blasts and – most dangerous of all – the press. Within the heart of the complex's labyrinth of bare concrete corridors was the Operations Room.

The Ops Room was a high-tech battle management centre crammed full of computer workstations, at which were seated nearly two-dozen soldiers clad in green-black-brown Disrupted Pattern Material combat fatigues that displayed no rank insignia or unit flashes. The air was constantly abuzz with overlapping conversation and the strained whirring of overworked computer hard drives, and occasionally – _very_ occasionally – punctuated by tannoy announcements from the duty operations officer.

Several vast screens dominated one wall of the room, the largest of which showed a map of the world with various symbols and icons scattered around it. On an adjoining wall was the regiment's status board, displaying a list of all the duty elements:

**A Squadron**

**B Squadron**

**D Squadron**

**G Squadron**

**Duty Troop**

**Pagoda Team**

**Ulster Troop**

**F Troop**

Beside the name of each element was a row of coloured lights that indicated their status. The Pagoda Team and the Duty Troop had only amber and red lights, while the other elements had green, amber and red; each of the squadrons had a stack of four rows of lights next to them.

Currently, Pagoda and the Duty Troop had amber lights showing next to them while D Squadron's lights were all dark. F Troop, two of A Squadron's sets of lights and one set of B Squadron's were red-lit; the rest all showed green.

"Evening, Roddy."

Captain Rodney Griffiths, the ops officer, turned upon hearing that. "Good evening, sir," he replied. "Welcome back."

"Thanks," said Forwood. Deeply-tanned with a boxer's build and prematurely greying hair, Lieutenant Colonel Alan Forwood was in his late thirties, and looked more like a frontline soldier – or possibly a veteran enforcer for a Mafia crime family – than he did the commanding officer of a British Army regiment.

"How was the COBRA exercise, sir?" Griffiths asked politely.

"Tedious as always. What's the latest?" Forwood asked as he strode in to stand beside Griffiths' desk, from where he intently studied the map and status board.

Griffiths handed over a sheaf of a dozen printouts. "Fairly quiet, sir," he said, as Forwood began flicking through the reports. "Nothing new in Columbia, Bosnia, the Gulf, the South China Sea, or Ulster. D Squadron's still providing the garrison detachments and CT team. There's a bunch of idiots attempting to open the Belize Hellmouth; F Troop have deployed, and I expect to receive word from Captain d'Erlanger in—" Griffiths paused and glanced at a clock on the wall, "—fourteen minutes."

"Who's trying it on?" Forwood asked, glancing up from the reports.

Griffiths shook his head, unconcerned. "Just a dozen or so members of the Sisterhood of Jhe, nothing they can't handle," he said calmly. "F Troop's got seven lads from D Squadron and five Shakyboats on the books just now, and there's a member of the Coven backing them up. That should be enough to get the job done."

Forwood nodded. "Alright," he said. "What else is in the works?"

"Doctor Aletha's team – the ladies themselves, plus two lads from G Squadron and a couple of Shakyboats – reported in last night: they're on their way back from Antarctica right now. _Endurance_ is due to pick them up in an hour, and will take them up to the Falklands; they'll grab a flight out of Mount Pleasant, bounce through Ascension to Brize Norton, and should be back here inside of forty-eight hours."

"No luck finding that 'Gate, then?"

Griffiths glumly shook his head. "No, it looks like the Yanks got there first."

"The thieving _bastards…"_ Forwood growled. "That thing was in _our_ territory, dammit."

"Yes, sir," Griffiths said sympathetically. "Moving on: Seven Troop from B Squadron has just reported slotting a warlock from the Mandulisian Cabal and destroying a Korraxis demon he'd summoned in Portland – the American one, that is, not Portland Bill or that Australian city. They're cleaning up now."

"I trust that by 'cleaning up', you _really_ mean 'razing the ritual site to the ground to make sure no one can repeat the summoning'?" Forwood said sternly.

"Indeed, sir," Griffiths smoothly replied. "A Squadron's got a troop each in the US and Southampton who've found trouble – Alphas Three Zero and Two Zero respectively. Two Troop have run into a cell of the Blood Pact in the docks; Sergeant Blackwell says they can handle the bastards on their own quite comfortably, and expects to finish them off within the next ten hours at most."

Forwood nodded. "Well, Geoff's run plenty of ops against them before, so he ought to know what he's talking about if anyone does…" he mused aloud. "And Alpha Three Zero?"

"They caught wind of a minor outbreak of zombies – they should be nearly done mopping them up about now, actually. Captain Hastings checked in half an hour ago to report they were five miles out from the target and heading in by road."

Forwood looked up sharply from the sheaf of reports. "Where's that?"

"Springton, Arizona – some little half-a-horse town out in the middle of nowhere," Griffiths assured him. "Jeremy's pessimistic about finding survivors, but at least it's pretty isolated; the chances of this blowing up into a major outbreak are almost completely nil."

"Opposition?"

Griffiths shrugged. "Call it a hundred, maybe one-fifty zombies, tops; but realistically it'll probably work out at less than half that many – maybe as few as twenty or thirty."

"Alright," Forwood said, sounding thoughtful. "What's Alpha Three Zero's strength?"

"Thirteen badged, including Hastings, and a support element of three: Captain Reckliss from the Coven, Corporal Price and Lance Corporal Tanner. The rest of Three Troop is split between Training Wing and the CRW cell."

Forwood nodded. "Dom Tanner's from Signals Corps, isn't he?" he asked. "The techno-mage?"

"Yes, sir."

"And which Corporal Price are we talking about? EOD or REME?"

"REME, sir. They needed a grease monkey and he jumped at the opportunity."

"Well, it sounds like they should do alright," said Forwood. "When can we expect to hear from them?"

"An outbreak that small? Call it another five minutes, maybe ten, tops."

"What news from One Troop?"

"Alpha One Zero cleared Columbian airspace three hours ago. Captain Greystone reported clean kills on both of the Tier One targets: all Tier Twos are confirmed slotted, zero collateral damage, and no casualties on our side."

"Excellent! How about Four Troop? They're still cleaning up after the destruction of the Alabaman Hellmouth, aren't they? Out in that forest?"

"Yes, sir."

"All going well?"

"Seems to be, sir."

"Any problems with the locals?"

"They checked in this morning to report that a couple of hillbilly johnnies had taken pot-shots at them, sir – real snaggle-toothed inbred _Deliverance_ types from the sound of it. Apparently, one even had a banjo on him."

Forwood's eyes narrowed. "And Four Troop's response to this was…?"

"Termination with extreme prejudice, sir."

"_Good,"_ Forwood growled. "Will the bodies be a problem?"

"No, sir, that's all been taken care of."

"And everything else is quiet, I trust?"

Griffiths nodded. "Yes, si—" He paused, unconsciously reaching up to press the earpiece of his headset. "What is it, Corporal?" Griffiths asked. A second later, his eyes widened in alarm, and he turned back to Forwood as he rose from his seat. "We have a Case Lima, sir."

Griffiths quickly led the way through the Ops Room, Forwood following along behind, until they halted behind a terminal and the young woman seated before it. "Corporal Williams," Griffiths said curtly, getting her attention. "You reported a Case Lima?"

"Yes, sir," replied Corporal Sandra Williams, briefly glancing away from her terminal and politely nodding to both officers in turn before turning back to her work. "Priority flash traffic from Box 500, sir – confirmed sighting of the vampire Kakistos. He left Las Vegas thirty minutes ago, and he's heading for the Sunnydale Hellmouth."

"How reliable is this intelligence?" Forwood asked, his voice quiet yet firm.

"It's categorised as Class Three, sir," said Williams.

Griffiths let out a low whistle. "That's a pretty rare fish," he mused aloud. "The last time we got one of those, G Squadron wound up slotting Urlock Gaur."

"And Alpha Three Zero and Bravo Seven Zero are the closest callsigns," Forwood pointed out, looking up at the icons on the map. "It's practically on their doorsteps… and there are no other friendly units in the area closer than F Troop. The nearest Shakyboats are aboard HMS _Sovereign_."

"Sir!" another signaller called out. "Incoming call from DSF, priority Alpha Seven!"

"Punch it up," Forwood ordered.

"Yes, sir."

Forwood looked up as one of the large screens on the wall flickered, before quickly resolving into the image of Brigadier Julian Page, the United Kingdom's Director of Special Forces. Clad in full British Army dress uniform, he stood in the middle of his own underground operations room at the Duke of York's building in King's Road, London.

"Alan," Page curtly greeted him. "I take it you already know about the Lima?"

"Yes, sir," said Forwood.

"Well, so does Number Ten," Page continued. "The PM wants to Kakistos destroyed – we can't take chances if he's mucking about with a Hellmouth. And this is the best shot we'll have at clobbering the bastard since '85."

"I can put boots on the dirt in Sunnydale in under ten hours, sir," Forwood offered.

"What size force?"

"Two troops. Three Troop are in Arizona right now, finishing off a zombie outbreak – thirteen badged personnel, three support: one of the latter's from the Coven; they'll arrive first. The second unit, Seven Troop, will take—" Forwood paused, glancing over at Griffiths.

"Eleven to twelve hours, sir," Griffiths supplied.

Forwood gave him a grateful nod, then turned back to Page. "That'll add another twelve badged personnel to the force, and two support," Forwood continued. "They'll both go in by road."

Page nodded, looking contemplative. "That ought to do the job," he agreed. "I – one moment," he said; Forwood and Griffiths watched as the screen showed a major approach Page and hand him a printout, which Page quickly perused, then looked back up at the two SAS officers.

"Alan, I've just had word from the Poole mob," Page announced. "Tom Dutton says 4 Section can effect an amphibious deployment from the _Sovereign_ and deploy to Sunnydale within eleven hours. I want you to deploy Three and Seven Troops to Sunnydale with all available speed: Three Troop go in first, while Seven Troop and 4 Section form the second wave for in case it all goes Pete Tong, understood?"

Forwood gave a crisp nod. "Yes, sir."

"Good. That'll add another eight badged personnel to the force. Do Three or Seven Troops have officers?"

"Three Troop does, sir, but the ice cream boys don't. Jeremy Hastings's running Three Troop – he came up with the plan to slot that bastard Sheznavitch last year."

"Ah, yes, that was nicely done. Alright: tell Hastings he's got command of the whole force – I'll straighten things out with Dutton to make sure there's no arsing around on that side of things."

"Yes, sir."

"Excellent. Once Kakistos is destroyed, they're to give the town a good going over and raid as many vampire nests and hostile demon lairs as they can find – casualties permitting, of course. They'll have until Friday to finish up there, pull out on Saturday morning, local time. Questions?"

"Might the Council try to interfere, sir?" Forwood asked. "The last I heard was that they had a Slayer camped out full-time on that particular Hellmouth."

"Riverside and Thames House are getting some confusing reports from their sources within the Council," Page told him. "But it looks like some of the Scourge of Europe killed that Slayer a fortnight ago. We think she _might_ have bagged Angelus before they took her down, though, and the Council seem to be having difficulties locating the new Slayer, but the spooks have got nothing concrete on that score. With any luck, the Council won't be an issue. Still, if it turns out intel's wrong, then your chaps know the Second Slayer Protocol."

"Yes, sir."

"Very well, Alan: I shan't keep you. And good hunting." So saying, Page's image vanished from the screen as the link was broken.

"Corporal Williams?" Forwood said, grabbing a spare headset and donning it.

"Sir?"

"Patch me through to Captain Hastings, immediately."

"Yes, sir," Williams replied, fingers already flying over her keyboard. "There's a Skynet 4 currently in position—" a satellite's location flickered on the ops room's main display screen in response, "—establishing connection now…

"Skynet uplink in five seconds… four… three… two… one… _contact!"_

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Springton, Arizona**

"Well, that's the last of our stuff," Gina sighed, closing the boot of her newly-repaired and fully-fuelled Ford Escort estate before taking one last look at her house. Zombie corpses were strewn around it, and two of the soldiers – introduced only by their nicknames, 'Nick' and 'Badger' – had just finished rigging the building for destruction.

Further up the street, the side door of one of the Transit vans slid open, and a baby-faced young soldier jumped out, clutching a satellite 'phone in one hand and a carbine in the other. "Boss!" he shouted, trotting quickly over to Hastings and holding out the phone. "Sunray for you."

Hastings gave the newcomer a curt nod and accepted the phone. "Thanks, Dom," he said, his voice easily carrying the distance to Gina and Theo in the tranquil silence. "Sunray, this Alpha Three Zero Alpha…" he said, as he accepted the 'phone and raised it to his ear. "…yes, sir… …right… …right…"

Dom hefted his carbine, holding it at the ready and carefully watching the street while Hastings was thus distracted.

"Hey, Nick!" Gina called out. "Who's 'Sunray'?"

"Our boss," Nick replied, as he and Badger quickly walked up the front path toward the road, playing out a length of detonating cord behind them.

"Home's calling E.T.," Badger chipped in, perfectly deadpan.

"Riiiiight… oh-kaaay," Gina dragged the words out, puzzling over the unhelpful answer.

"W-Why might that be?" Theo asked.

"New orders: odds are it means we've got a fastball," Nick said as they reached the gate to Gina's front lawn, and crouched to begin connecting their length of det cord to a longer piece that ran down the length of the street.

"And… what does _that_ mean?" Gina asked.

"The balloon's gone up real quick real unexpected-like," Badger elaborated, not looking up from the job at hand.

"So we're going to get dropped right in the middle of a bloody great big pile of shit – _again,"_ Nick continued. Having finished making and testing the connection, both soldiers stood up; Nick keyed his headset and spoke into the mic: "Alpha Three Two Delta; set, over." He paused, listening intently as his earpiece crackled. "Alpha Three Two Delta; have that, out."

Glancing over her shoulder, Gina saw some of the other soldiers gradually filing back up the street towards their vehicles

"Annnd we're done," Badger quietly announced.

Handing the sat 'phone back to Dom, Hastings keyed his comms. "All callsigns, Alpha Three Zero Alpha: RV on the wagons in two, out," he ordered into his mic.

"You two might want to come along for this," Nick suggested. "Boss is probably going to discuss our travel plans at some point."

"Yeah, and the time for demolition," said Badger.

"Sounds like a good idea," Theo agreed. "Thanks, guys."

"Sooo… where're you guys from?" Gina idly asked, as she and Theo fell into step beside the two soldiers, strolling over to the knot of vehicles.

"Manchester." "Basildon," came two near-simultaneous replies.

"Umm… where're those?"

"Manchester? North of England," said Badger.

"Basildon's part of London," Nick explained. "It's the name of one of the old villages that got absorbed as the city expanded over the centuries."

"Yeah, but where're you from originally?" Gina asked Nick.

The black soldier stiffened and his eyes narrowed as he looked Gina squarely in the eye. "'Originally'?" Nick asked, his voice tight.

Gina looked puzzled. "Yeah, _y'know_ – the old country."

"Oh, well, _originally_ I'm from Shepherd's Bush," Nick said sarcastically.

"Where's that?"

"Another part of London."

As the rest of the soldiers began to gather around them, Gina suppressed the urge to smack her head repeatedly against the side of the nearest Range Rover. _"Crap,"_ she said quietly, then spoke up: "Look, ah… Nick, I'm _real_ sorry for just now… I don't _usually_ act like a complete and total ass-hat, it's just I haven't slept in days, and been running from and fighting zombies… and, well, I guess I always thought all Brits were white Little Lord Fauntleroy-types or Hollywood bad guys, and… Well, I'm really, _really_ sorry, man, I screwed up there."

Nick studied her intently for a second, then cracked a lopsided smile. "No problem," he said. "You don't exactly live up to your stereotype either."

Badger nodded. "Yeah: for one thing, you've still got most of your teeth."

Bewildered, Gina looked at Theo: he could only offer her a bemused shrug. "Um… what stereotype would _that_ be?" Gina asked, turning back to the two soldiers.

Nick and Badger exchanged glances. "Dlang-dlang dlang-dlang dlang-dlang dlang…" Badger began.

"…Squeal, piggy, squeal," Nick continued, as his grin broadened.

Gina rolled her eyes and gave a small chuckle. "Oh, har-har, fun-_nee,"_ she drawled in exaggerated sarcasm.

"Y'know what?" Nick gave her a playful nudge with his elbow. "You're alright, Deppity."

"Alright, listen in," Hastings began, looking sombre as he called the rallied troop to order, bringing an end to the hubbub of casual conversations. "We've got a fastball: our orders are to head for California, the Sunnydale Hellmouth. Kakistos is heading there from Vegas right now: he's got half an hour's head start on us."

Gina and Theo exchanged puzzled looks as the men and women around them began looking much less relaxed at those words.

"We'll be part of a task force consisting of us, a Bravo callsign, and a section from the Shakyboats," Hastings continued: Gina and Theo's bewilderment only deepened further, but the others seemed to perfectly understand the alien-sounding terms and slang.

"We're the first wave: our first priority's to get in; find somewhere we can set up an FOB and prep to receive the other units; and recce the town to gather intel, and see if we can find out where Kakistos might plan to establish himself. The overall objective is to slot Kakistos once and for all. If we can pull it off by ourselves, we have a green light to get on with it: otherwise, we wait for the others and hit him in force."

"I'm sorry, but who exactly is this 'Kakstoss' guy, Hastings?" Gina piped up.

"Kakistos is the world's oldest vampire, and a very nasty piece of work," Hastings said calmly, unperturbed by the interruption.

Ken – an angular-featured man with ginger hair in his mid-thirties, he was the oldest member of the gathering – snorted at that. "Fookin' unnerstatement, Boss… 'E's the evilest fookin' bastard on the fookin' planet," he growled, turning to Gina. "Rape, torture, massacre – you name it, 'e's fookin' done it more times'n you've 'ad 'ot dinners; even invented a few methods 'imself. Bin aroond near on six thoosand fookin' years."

"So, killing him… wouldn't be a crime, I take it?" Gina checked.

Ken grinned at that. "Aye, it wouldn't. Wuz ye thinkin' of tryin' tae arrest uz all orr summat?"

"That seemed kind of impractical," Gina admitted. "I was just going to raise a formal objection and ask nicely, and hope that did the trick."

Ken shrugged his brawny shoulders. "Aye, weel, it wuid've worrked better'n ye goin' ahl gung-ho an' shite ever wouldae doon," he agreed.

"Aren't the Council s'posed to have a Slayer on that Hellmouth, Boss?" Badger asked.

"It looks like she might be dead," said Hastings. "However, if the intel's wrong, or the new Slayer's wound up there, we resort to the Second Slayer Protocol."

"Um… wh-what's that?" asked Theo.

"I attempt to make contact by myself, minimal armament," Hastings explained. "We go in diplomatic, play it straight and level, and try to form a working agreement together. Getting a Vampire Slayer on-side would help tremendously with bringing down Kakistos."

"With a job description like that, I guess it would," Gina chipped in.

"Quite. Now, this is going to be a tough one," said Hastings. "I won't lie to you: going after Kakistos, odds are we're going to get hit heavily. If anyone wants to bin it, now's the time to say."

Five seconds ticked past in silence, with no takers.

"Alright," Hastings continued, a small smile forming on his lips. "Now, for at least the next week or so, it looks like we'll be continuing to operate in the US. It's a bizarre country; it had three active Hellmouths until last month, but there's still two left; and the locals have some customs and habits that are downright freakishly alien to us."

"Bring out the gimp," Badger said helpfully.

"Gimp's sleeping," Nick retorted.

"Well, I guess you're gonna have to go wake him up now, won't you?"

A couple of the soldiers chuckled at the exchange; others shook their heads in mock-disapproval, or silently smirked in amusement. "Knob-_bers!"_ another called out.

"Now, there's one very important thing about America and Americans that I want you all to bear very closely in mind in the days to come," Hastings calmly interrupted the by-play, his expression studiously deadpan as the assembled men and women fell silent. "From a 'hearts and minds' perspective, it's very important to understanding the local culture and mentality. And it is this:

"In this country, they all drive on the wrong side of the road."

For a second, the troop seemed to freeze.

And then, Badger burst out laughing.

A few of the other soldiers joined him; more just shook their heads, smirked, or cat-called:

"Boss! Hate to feckin' say it, but Charlie feckin' Croaker, you _en't!"_

"Wanker!"

"You're only supposed to blow _the bloody doors off!"_

"Christ, couldn't you at least come up with something original, Boss?"

"This is the Self-Pres-er-vation Soc-i-e-ty!"

"Alright, wind it in, you lot," Hastings cut in once more, openly grinning. "Now, it's currently—" Hastings glanced at his watch, "—oh-eight-twenty hours local time; I want us to be on the road in five minutes. We detonate after clearing a one-mile radius. Got it?"

A ragged chorus of _"Yes, Boss,"_ was his reply.

"Good. Complete final dems prep and fire up the wagons, get them ready to move," Hastings ordered: instantly the assembled soldiers broke ranks, bustling this way and that in a scene of organised chaos.

"Deputy Buccelli, Mr Ward," Hastings said, approaching them. "Do you want to ride in convoy with us, or head the opposite direction? You'd be very welcome with us if that's what you want?"

"Uh, wow, th-thanks, uh, M-Mr Hastings—" Theo hesitantly stammered.

"We'd love to, but we're heading for Vegas," Gina interrupted, taking Theo's hand in hers.

Turning to her, Theo blinked in bemusement. "Um… Vegas?" he asked.

"Remember what we were talking about before dawn?" Gina prompted.

Theo's eyes widened. "W-Wait, y-you're serious about that?" he asked, not daring to allow himself to hope. "Y-You mean to say…?"

Gina smirked. "I mean to say," she agreed, then slid her hands up to the back of Theo's head and pulled him down into a passionate kiss.

Wolf-whistles, a few playful cat-calls, and congratulations rang out around them; neither Gina nor Theo paid them any heed. Eventually, starved for oxygen, they broke apart, panting for breath.

Hastings proffered a gloved hand. "Allow me to be the first to offer my congratulations," he said politely.

Grinning, Gina shook his hand. "Thanks."

"Sorry we didn't get you two a toaster or something as a wedding gift," Hastings continued.

Theo chuckled at that as he accepted his own handshake. "Ah, th-that's okay."

"Yeah, you guys _did_ show up in the nick of time to save our lives, after all," Gina agreed.

Hastings smiled at that. "Well, I won't keep you," he said. "Good luck."

"You too," Gina replied, then turned and broke into a jog back to her car, Theo hot on her heels.

**[—]**

Half a minute later, Hastings' smile grew wider and he shook his head ruefully as he watched the dull red Escort pull away from the curb and accelerate away down the road. Wrenching open the front passenger door of one of the Range Rovers, he clambered in and slammed the door after him, then rested his carbine's muzzle on the crack between the door and the dashboard, ready for use.

"All callsigns, Alpha Three Zero Alpha," Hastings said into his mic as more members of his troop climbed into the vehicle. "Count in."

In the driver's seat beside Hastings, James 'Badger' Brock glanced over his shoulder, gaze running over Hastings and the other two soldiers who'd gotten settled in the back. "Alpha Three One Bravo: four up," Badger announced into his own headset mic.

"_Alpha Three Two Bravo: four up,"_ Nick's report crackled over the net.

"_Alpha Three Three Bravo: four up."_

"_Alpha Three Four Bravo: four up."_

"Alpha Three Zero Alpha, copy that," Hastings replied. "Move out."

Grinning, Badger put the Range Rover into gear and pulled away sharply, closely followed by the rest of the little convoy. Glancing into his wing mirror, Hastings watched the Escort gradually accelerate away into the distance, Springton's buildings flashing past the window.

Its occupants bound for their new future together, the Escort tore hell-for-leather out across the scrubland on the narrow strip of road. Meanwhile, Three Troop's convoy accelerated away in the opposite direction, heading straight for Sunnydale, and the storm that awaited them there.

**[—]**

Discarded scraps of paper and litter whirled lazily through the air, gently bounced along by a light breeze and dancing amid the fallen zombies. Springton was finally dead and done.

Abruptly, the town hall exploded, flinging shrapnel in all directions. The post office across the road was next, followed by the sheriff's department office. One after another, the town's buildings were blown apart in rapid succession, until at last all that remained was a merrily burning mass of wreckage and rubble.

**To be concluded…**

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**A/N:** Here we are at last – the penultimate chapter of _Free Spirits_. I'm rather relieved that it took me less than a month and a half to finish this one… ;)

If anyone's wondering, Gibbs' Rule Number 9 is 'Always carry a knife'.

There's just one more chapter left of _Free Spirits_, I promise: it's half-completed, actually, as I wrote some of the scenes before deciding they wouldn't work very well as part of this chapter. Sorry it's taken me so long to complete this episode, but I hope you've all enjoyed getting this far.

**Assorted 'in real life' notes:**

- 'Skynet' is the name of a network of British military communications satellites, which are also shared with NATO for combined operations. The first of the Mark 1 Skynet satellites was deployed in orbit and entered full operational use in 1969.

- British special forces units (including the SAS, SBS, 14th Intelligence Company and assorted others) have been collectively known by the nickname of 'them' by the rest of Britain's armed forces since at least the late 1970s (and possibly earlier).

- 'The Shakyboats' is one of the nicknames for the Special Boat Service (SBS) of the Royal Marines Commandos, the Royal Navy's special forces unit.

- Australian troops who used the M79 grenade launcher while fighting in the Vietnam War nicknamed the weapon 'the Wombat Gun'. This nickname was quickly adopted by British, New Zealander and other Commonwealth military units who came into close contact with Australian troops and also used the M79.

"In this country, they all drive on the wrong side of the road" and "You're only supposed to blow the bloody doors off!" are quotes from the 1969 film _The Italian Job_, which I do not own the copyright to. The song "Heroes" was written by David Bowie and Brian Eno in 1977; I don't know who owns the copyright, but it's not me.

Many thanks to everyone on TtH and FFN who's reviewed: I treasure each and every one of them. Please keep them coming…

I'll be back,

El ;)


	11. Chapter 11

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**No Fate: The Collected Data Files**

**Chapter Eleven – Free Spirits Part Nine**

**Tuesday 3rd June 1997**

**Initiative Base of Operations Echo Four, Sunnydale, CA**

The man's corpse was strapped securely down to a surgical bed. Still clad in black BDUs and combat boots, the corpse showed visible signs of having begun to decompose: its skin was a lifeless grey, his eyes were dull and vacant. He exhibited every sign of being dead.

And yet, he continued to move.

The rotted fingers scrabbled uselessly against the bed; his arms and legs tugged in vain at the restraints holding him down; and he slowly turned his head back and forth, over and over again, dead eyes scanning his surroundings.

From the safety of the adjoining observation room, Walsh and Finn stared through a window of electrified bulletproof glass at the zombie in the lab.

"Agent Finn…" Walsh slowly began, her tone of voice frostily cold.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Would you care to explain _why_ Agent Romero is – at least in the clinical sense of the term – _dead?"_

Finn winced. "Y-yes, Director. We, ah, deployed to Camp Manticore as planned. We arrived at Springton at twelve-forty hours, but it was a dead end. The whole town had burned to the ground hours before we got there, and there was no sign of any survivors or HSTs. There must have been some kind of accident – maybe some survivors screwed up while trying to fight off the HSTs.

"We searched the surrounding area from the air. After three hours, we found a stray Zee-type HST about eighty miles away, wandering around in the desert – it's right over there, on the autopsy table," he said, helpfully pointing at the table in question, upon which rested the perfectly stationary decapitated corpse of a teenage boy that had been gratuitously riddled with bullets.

"And why is that HST currently… dormant, while Romero has become a Zee-type himself?"

Finn winced again. "The, ah, the Zee-type was unaffected when we engaged it with our DEWS-19s, Director, and the tranq guns didn't work either," he said. "We kept shooting it and it didn't even begin to slow down, and… well, in the confusion, it got among us and bit Romero, so we engaged with our CAR-15s and eliminated the threat that it posed."

"And what did you do then, Agent Finn?" Walsh asked, fixing him with a piercing gaze.

Finn looked abashed. "We figured that Romero was infected, so we zapped him with one of the '19s to put him out, then we restrained him, re-boarded the choppers, and returned to Manticore before heading back here," he replied. "We, ah, we figured that if Romero became a Zee-type, he could prove as good as the original Zee-type for a specimen."

Walsh glowered at the apologetic commando for half a minute or so. From Finn's perspective, the time passed with glacier-like slothfulness. "Agent Finn… you're dismissed," Walsh finally bit out.

"Yes, ma'am!" Finn snapped out smartly, greatly relieved. Ripping off a textbook salute that would have made even the most psychotic drill sergeant weep tears of joy, he stamped his foot on the floor, about-turned and marched away as swiftly as he dared.

Shaking her head, Walsh turned back to the zombie in Room 305.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**NCIS Headquarters, Navy Yard, Washington D.C.**

"You wanted to see me, Director?" Gibbs asked as he entered Morrow's office.

"It's about this report, Gibbs," Morrow said from his seat behind his desk, tapping a hardcopy file on his blotter. "From the Mulgrew case."

Gibbs gave a nonchalant shrug as he headed over to stand before Morrow's desk. "What about it?"

Morrow sighed and opened the file, revealing its contents. "It's so short that it barely _exists_, Gibbs," he said, habitually tucking a finger under his shirt collar and adjusting it.

"Well, Director—" Gibbs broke off, staring unwaveringly at Morrow.

Morrow frowned. "Gibbs? What is it?"

Slowly, Gibbs gave a small, secretive smile. "Director… you ever talk to anyone 'bout those scars on your neck?" he asked, touching the side of his own neck for emphasis.

Morrow flushed, and tugged his shirt collar up. "What of them?" he snapped, abruptly defensive. "I had an accident at home, is all. It was back in the early Nineties, if you must know."

"You fell on a barbeque fork – right?" Gibbs said in a knowing tone of voice.

"…That's right," Morrow said slowly.

"Despite the little fact that you've never had a barbeque before," Gibbs continued. "And have never owned a barbeque fork."

Morrow frowned. "Gibbs, how does this have _anything_ to do with this report?" he impatiently demanded.

Gibbs openly grinned. "Oh, just about everything," he said. "Director… what _really_ happened is you were bitten, weren't you?"

"Gibbs—!"

"You were bitten by someone who started out looking perfectly normal, but then… they _changed_, didn't they?" Gibbs continued, ignoring Morrow's warning. "Their forehead wrinkled, their eyes turned bright yellow… and their teeth grew longer and sharper… like _fangs_. They bit you, in the neck… you lost a lot of blood… but then you were rescued, right?"

Morrow's face drained of colour, and he sat back heavily in his chair.

"She was young, wasn't she – fifteen, maybe sixteen years old?" Gibbs said, his tone very soft and gentle. "Your attacker exploded into a cloud of ashes, and there she was… probably with a sharpened piece of wood in her hand. Right, Director?"

Morrow nodded mutely.

"You never told anyone what really happened, 'cause no one would have believed you without proof – not unless they'd had a similar experience themselves," Gibbs continued. "Your career would have been over: you could've even been institutionalised."

"And… have you had a… similar experience, Gibbs?" Morrow hoarsely asked.

Gibbs nodded. "Two, now: the first was back in the late Eighties, and the second…" he leaned over and tapped the Mulgrew case file, "…in Sunnydale, with DiNozzo."

"And you left this out of the report because…?"

"Because you would've had no choice but to have both of us committed if we filed an official report containing everything we saw and did and learned in Sunnydale, Director. If you hadn't, you would have lost your job for sure."

Morrow slowly nodded. "I… I see. Wh-What about Mulgrew?"

"Mulgrew's gonna stick to her story no matter what – she got grabbed by local gang members on PCP after she won a week's vacation at a hotel in some magazine's competition; DiNozzo and I showed up and rescued her; we all lived happily ever after; The End."

Morrow sighed. "Alright… alright, I guess that's probably for the best."

"Will that be all, Director?"

Morrow cleared his throat and closed the file. "Yes, that will be all, thank you, Agent Gibbs."

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Initiative Base of Operations Echo Four, Sunnydale, CA**

Lost deep in thought and absently rubbing her chin, Walsh stared down at the body of the dead HST lying on the examination table before her. A row of obsessively neat little stitches now discretely ran from its loins to the hollow of its throat, barely noticeable unless one looked closely. If it weren't for the fact that its chest remained still and that the body was stone cold to the touch from just having been removed from cold storage, an observer might have mistakenly believed it was an ordinary teenage girl who was merely fast asleep.

Walsh finally nodded to herself, her mind made up, lowered her hand and crossed the lab to the intercom panel. Tapping at the keypad, she then picked up the receiver.

"_Angleman,"_ came the reply.

"This is Walsh," she said.

"_Yes, Director?"_

"Jack, do we still have the equipment and records from the UniSol project in storage, or did they get shipped out?"

"_No, Director, they're still on the base."_

"What about the material left over from Project Legion? Do we still have that around?"

"_Yes, Director."_

"I want everything we have from the UniSol and Legion projects delivered to Room 300, Jack, and I want it delivered right now."

"_Uh, yes, Director. Director, umm… there's a _**lot**_ of material left over from those projects…"_

Walsh sighed impatiently. "Tell Finn I want him to assign a few of his men to handle the heavy lifting for you, but get it done within the next hour."

"_Yes, Dir—"_

Ignoring Angleman's reply, Walsh hung up and returned to the examination table's side. Resting her hand on the corpse's forehead, she gave it an almost affectionate pat.

"Well, now," murmured Walsh, "it seems that the President wants me to produce new weapons systems for him by the end of the year. I _do_ hope you won't let me down in that regard, Hostile 26."

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**NCIS Headquarters, Navy Yard, Washington D.C.**

"What've you got, Abs?"

Abby whirled around, her head still gently bobbing in time to her music. "Hey, guys!" she cheerfully greeted Gibbs and Tony. "Good news: ballistics conclusively match Sherman's M1911 to the slugs that killed Admiral Donaghue, and Sherman's are the only prints on the .45 and all seven of the shell casings you collected at the crime scene."

Tony looked at Gibbs. "Well, combine that with the confession, the testimony of seven witnesses and footage from three CCTV cameras, and I'd say we got ourselves a pretty open-and-shut case – right, Boss?" Tony said hopefully.

"Yeah, looks that way," Gibbs sighed.

"So, you guys're back from California for less than twenty-four hours, and you've _already_ proved that the jilted garden gnome saleswoman murdered the philandering admiral," Abby mused aloud, then did a quick double-take. "Man, I don't think anyone in the entire history of this planet has _ever_ uttered that sentence," she muttered under her breath.

"Not a bad result, is it?" Tony happily agreed.

"Good work, Abs," said Gibbs, placing a fresh Caf-Pow in her fingerless mitten-clad hands.

"Oh, you're welcome," she said playfully. "Now, come on, guys, as _that's_ outta the way – spill!" she commanded.

"Spill _what_, exactly?" Gibbs asked.

"What happened in _Sunnydale_, of course!" Abby eagerly explained. "Come _on!_ You guys went to Alex Harris's hometown and Weird Covered-Up Death Central – there's just no _way_ I'm ever gonna buy that you went all the way there and _didn't_ look into what was really going on! So, share the wealth already! Please, please, please, please, _pleeeeease!"_ she begged, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet, unleashing her most soulful 'puppy dog eyes' stare on them.

Unfazed, Gibbs slowly nodded, then turned and headed for the lift. "C'mon, then," he called over his shoulder, holding up a hand and beckoning with his fingertips for Abby and Tony to follow him.

"Where we goin', Boss?" Tony asked, his curiosity piqued.

"Private conference room."

Tony looked startled. "Really? Whose is it?" he asked, as they reached the lift doors.

"Mine," Gibbs said simply, pushing the 'call' button.

Tony grinned. "You've got your own private conference room at NCIS headquarters?"

"Uh-huh."

Tony's grin widened as the lift doors slid open and they stepped inside. _"Cool!"_

Gibbs pressed a button at random, and the lift doors trundled closed again. He waited a few seconds as the lift car rose up through the building, then hit the 'emergency stop' button. The lift promptly screeched to a halt and the lights dimmed.

"Um… Boss? Whatcha doin'?"

Gibbs gestured vaguely at the lift walls. "Welcome to my conference room," he said curtly.

Tony looked around. _"Huh,"_ he grunted, intrigued. "Not exactly roomy, is it?"

Gibbs shrugged. "It's big enough and it's private. Cell 'phones don't work in here; and the walls form a Faraday Cage, so we can't be bugged too easily."

Tony nodded, looking thoughtful. "Nice."

"Sooo… what did you guys find out?" Abby pleaded, grinning from ear to ear.

Gibbs and Tony exchanged glances, then looked back at her. "Wellll… there's some really – and I do mean _REALLY!_ – weird and crazy stuff going on there, Abby," Tony began. "I mean, you really can't believe any of it unless you, y'know, see it for yourself – heck, if the Boss had just told me about this stuff, I wouldn't have believed even _him."_

Shooting Tony a cold stare, Gibbs turned back to Abby. "Remember Lehane and Harris, from the Daniels case?" said Gibbs.

Abby nodded, sending her pigtails swinging. "Yup!"

"We met them."

"'Met them'?" Tony incredulously repeated. "Hell, that's not the _half_ of it – we'd never have gotten Mulgrew back alive if it hadn't been for them."

"Oh my god!" Abby squealed. "A-And they're okay? They're safe?"

"They're both safe, Abs," Gibbs assured her.

"D-Do they know about the NID?"

"I gave them a head's up."

"A-And Faith Lehane… is that Harris kid, y'know, doing right by her? He's not gonna hurt her, is he?" Abby asked, her tone turning suspicious.

"Xander? Are you _kidding?"_ Tony laughed. "Hell, Abs, he'll _die_ before anything bad happens to Faith; and he's _definitely_ never gonna hurt her. That'd kinda go against his mission… in life," he said, adding the last two words as an afterthought.

Abby's shoulders slumped. "That's a relief… Hey, did you ask Harris what kind of body armour he was wearing for that chase through Boston?" she asked, perking up again.

"He wasn't," said Gibbs.

"Huh?"

Gibbs shrugged and spread his hands wide. "He wasn't wearing _any_ body armour, Abs. None."

Abby frowned, perplexed. "But… But… Then _how…?"_

"Like I said, Abs – _really_ weird and crazy stuff," said Tony. "If you ever meet those kids and see them in action, _then_ you'll be able to believe the truth about them. But if we tell you the full story, with _no_ evidence whatsoever? You'll just think we've gone nuts."

"Abs… you remember how you put together that movie of Faith and Xander and that other guy in the chase through Boston?" Gibbs asked gently.

"Yeah…?" Abby replied.

"You remember how they emerged from the local branch of Wolfram & Hart?"

"Yep!"

"Please tell me you _haven't_ investigated them."

"Umm, nope, not yet."

Gibbs and Tony simultaneously sighed in relief.

"Abs, I need you to promise me something," Gibbs said seriously.

Abby gulped, a little unnerved. "S-Sure! Anything!"

"Never… _ever_… investigate Wolfram & Hart," Gibbs ordered, his voice firm and deadly quiet. "Ever. Not even once, not even a little, not even indirectly. If you ever find out that a suspect you're investigating is in any way – in _any_ way at all! – connected to Wolfram & Hart, you _stop_ immediately and you come tell me, okay? You don't do anything else, not even if the Director tells you otherwise, not even if SecNav and the President are in here ordering you to continue your investigation – you stop _immediately_, and you come get me and tell me _everything_ you know."

Abby nodded, shocked by Gibbs' intense stare and tone of voice.

"Do you promise?" Gibbs asked, his voice growing a little gentler.

"I-I-I promise," Abby stammered.

Wrapping his arms around Abby's shoulders, Gibbs gently drew her into a warm hug and kissed the crown of her head. "Thank you, Abs," he whispered.

"Uh… G-Gibbs? C-Can I ask why I should give Wolfram & Hart such a-a-a wide berth?" Abby tremulously asked, hugging Gibbs back and cuddling close to him for comfort.

"You know how, when you first showed us that movie you'd made of Faith and Xander and that other guy, I said Wolfram & Hart used to be my archenemies, back before I joined NCIS?" Tony spoke up.

Abby nodded. "Uh-huh?"

"Well, it turns out they're _waaaaaaay_ worse than I could've ever imagined," Tony said with a grimace.

"They're dangerous, Abs – _really_ dangerous," Gibbs said softly. "They're very slick, very smart, and have had a _lot_ of practice at maintaining their privacy, and they'll stop at _nothing_ to destroy anyone who poses even the remotest possible threat to their activities. Now, maybe – just _maybe_ – one day someone will bring them down… maybe we'll even be a part of that… but for now, they're too damn powerful. If you ever investigate them, you can bet they'll find out somehow…"

"That guy who was chasing Faith, and who Xander whacked? He was one of Wolfram & Hart's guys," Tony explained. "We ran into two more just like him in Sunnydale, targeting Faith again: Xander killed one; Faith knocked the other one out, and we didn't see him again before we left."

"A-And you guys think Wolfram & Hart would send another one of their guys after me," Abby said, her voice quavering.

"If they think you pose some kind of threat to them? Yeah," Gibbs agreed. "I know how good you are, Abby – if anyone could breach Wolfram & Hart's security, it's you. I – _we_ – don't want to lose you."

Abby hugged Gibbs a little tighter. "Okay," she whispered. "O-Okay… Hey, you take care too, got it? I don't wanna lose you guys either."

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Warehouse 13, The Docks, Sunnydale, CA**

The warehouse echoed to the sound of gunfire, screams, hissing crossbow bolts and crackling radios.

The main doors had been reduced to splintered kindling. A bright yellow mechanical digger had been driven through one wall, and now sat abandoned and ignored by the combatants within. Three vans, a pair of Range Rovers and a motorbike were pulled up outside.

Scattered amid the labyrinthine complex of stacks of ancient and abandoned packing cases, a battle raged in deadly earnest, divided into half a dozen or so separate skirmishes.

"_SLAYER!"_ Kakistos bellowed. "At last… your efforts to escape me have come to nothing!"

"_Escape_ you?" Faith shouted incredulously. "Double-You Tee _Fuck?_ I'd never even freakin' _heard_ of you 'til last night!"

"Pah!" Kakistos spat. "I shall take great pleasure in making you my _pet_, Slayer!"

"Ah, go screw yourself, Goat Boy! Oh, wait – you prolly already _do_ that, seein' how no one _else_ would ever touch ya with a _bargepole!"_

With an angry roar, Kakistos charged, eyes glittering menacingly. A dozen fires flickered unheeded across his leathery flesh from where he'd been hit by several Vampbuster rounds.

Faith leapt to meet him, clutching her recently-acquired greatsword in both hands as she swung with all her might and the blade snarled through the air. Kakistos dodged to one side, but too late; the long blade slashed through his throat, severing his vocal cords and tearing open his neck.

Kakistos released a gurgling scream as blood gushed from the wound and he fell to his knees, cloven hands clutching at his throat

Faith's greatsword flashed once more, and Kakistos' head and hands tumbled to the ground before he exploded into ashes. A bulky and robust-looking skeleton – which clattered loudly to the warehouse floor – was all that remained of the world's oldest vampire.

The greatsword swept down, shearing through the skeleton's spine; then again, hacking through its thigh bones. Over and over the greatsword rose and fell in inhumanly rapid succession, as it steadily carved and battered the skeleton to dust.

A pair of female vampires in full demonic 'game face' rushed at Faith from behind, screaming "For Kakistos we live, for Kakistos we die!" in unison.

Xander stepped into their path: the Terminator raised his Winchester one-handed and fired, dispatching the first vampire.

Lashing out at the second, he drove his free hand deep into the vampire's chest, smashing through her ribcage, clenched his fingers into a fist around her heart and _squeezed_, crushing the organ into a pulpy mess. With a scream of shock and pain, the vampire exploded into ashes.

Gripping the Winchester's barrel once more, the T-890 flicked out the shotgun's trigger guard to eject the spent shell, then slid it back into place, bringing a fresh shell up into the firing chamber.

"Thanks, Tee!" Faith called out, glancing over her shoulder and shooting the Terminator a grateful grin as she discarded her cumbersome greatsword. The bulky SL-2s strapped to her forearms spat out a pair of stakes as she flicked her wrists; catching the stakes, Faith charged headlong into a half-dozen or so vampires that were trying to rally. Xander's Winchester thundered and a vampire dusted as the Terminator followed in the rampaging Slayer's wake.

**[—]**

A vampire sprang down from the top of a stack of mouldering packing cases, tackling Hastings to the floor. The SAS captain grunted a curse as his carbine was knocked from his hands and sent skidding away.

Kneeling on his chest, the vampire took a moment to leer down at him, exaggeratedly running her pink tongue over her fangs. "Oooh, you're a _pretty_ one…" she cooed, ignoring the battle raging around them. "Maybe I should _keep_ you…?"

A double-edged Puma combat knife was sheathed inverted on Hastings' ops waistcoat above his left shoulder; he yanked it out in a quick cross-draw, deftly flipped it around into an ice-pick grip, and rammed the knife's seven-inch blade deep into the vampire's gut, burying it up to the D-guard handgrip, the tip of the blade protruding from her back.

"You're not my type," he told her, as he twisted the knife and slid it sideways an inch or two before wrenching it free of the sucking wound.

Shrieking like a banshee, more in rage than pain, the vampire grabbed Hastings by the collar of his shirt and sprang back, landing on her feet before she hurled him away from her. Slamming into another stack of old crates, Hastings bounced off them and landed heavily on the concrete floor below, his knife landing beside him.

As the vampire rushed toward him, murder in her yellow eyes as she continued to scream, Hastings yanked his sidearm – a Sig Sauer P226 pistol – from its holster on his right hip, and instinctively aimed and fired. His first shot caught her in the right breast; the Vampbuster cartridge expanded and splintered apart, the petals ripping a gaping hole in the vampire's chest even as powdered white phosphorous coated the wound and ignited upon contact with the oxygen in the air.

His second shot landed close by; the vampire's chest was merrily ablaze by now, and she sank to her knees, wailing piteously. A split-second later, Hastings' third shot punched through her chest and into her heart, exposing the organ to the air and setting light to it.

Still screaming, the vampire exploded into a cloud of ashes that sifted to the floor.

"Boss!" Ken Krolin shouted. "Here!"

Hastings glanced over at the sergeant, then reached out and snatched his flying carbine out of the air. "Thanks, Ken!" Hastings called back, as he slammed the carbine's stock into his right shoulder and double-tapped a passing vampire through the head; the vampire dusted before he had time to realise what had happened.

**[—]**

Twin coils of rope twisted and swooped through the air, neatly lassoing a pair of vampires and holding them fast. Raising their crossbows, Oz and Warren carefully lined their sights up on the struggling captive vampires.

From Mr Trick's perspective, time seemed to slow to a crawl as he watched the short blue-haired teenager take aim with a crossbow, languidly bringing the weapon to bear as if moving deep underwater, until it pointed directly at Trick's heart.

"Oh, no," Trick protested, shaking his head. "No, this is no good at all."

Oz fired. An instant later, Trick's ashes rained down to the floor.

A second after that, Warren loosed his own bolt, and the other vampire joined Trick in a dusty oblivion.

**[—]**

A fresh almighty explosion rocked the warehouse. The largest central area was filled with vampires: an angry blast wave rolled over them, sucking up the air and creating a momentary vacuum. Deafened by the sound and blinded by the flash of explosives, the vampires didn't notice the newly-formed gaping hole in the roof above them. Eight thick black ropes snaked down through the hole; a second later, armed men and women began sliding down them.

A thick and tough leather glove covered Scouse's left hand, which was clamped tightly around the thick rope, slowing his descent; he held his pistol in his right, and his carbine was slung across his back. He fired, once, twice, three times, walking his fire down the neck and chest of one vampire before his third shot pierced the vamp's heart; with a shriek of pain, the over-muscled male vamp exploded into ash.

A split-second later, Scouse's booted feet slammed hard into the shoulder of another dazed vampire; she was borne to the floor under Scouse's weight. Rolling to his right, Scouse jammed the muzzle of his pistol just below her ear and squeezed the trigger twice in rapid succession: caught with no time to react, the vampire dusted a second later, her head ripped open and ablaze.

Shucking off his fast-roping glove, Scouse holstered his pistol and unslung his carbine, looking around himself. During the troop's fast-rope deployment, a dozen vampires had become three. Bringing the carbine around, he reflexively drew a bead on one of the dazed and deafened survivors and fired: Dave and Geordie opened up on the vamp at the same time, their combined weight of fire tearing the vampire apart.

**[—]**

A vampire's fist landed smack in the middle of Faith's face even as she began to spin to face him; the punch snapped her body to the side. The vampire and his partner grabbed the Slayer by her jacket and threw her to the ground; as Faith tried to get to her feet, the second vampire roundhouse attempted to kick her in the face.

Faith grunted as she blocked the blow, but managed to get up again in time to block an uppercut from the first vamp by grabbing his fist; she squeezed it as hard as she could, and heard more than felt the bones in his palm and fingers snapping.

She backhand-punched him in the face, making him step back to keep his balance – only for a buckshot shell from Xander's shotgun to remove his head. Faith turned to face the second vampire: high-blocking a wide swing from the vamp, the Slayer flicked her wrist, snatched the stake from the SL-2, and punched him, driving the stake into his heart.

**[—]**

Badger was pinned down on the floor, a female vampire's fangs in his throat and a male's in his left arm, both undead monstrosities feeding hungrily from him. Howling in half-pain, half-defiance, he desperately snatched his Puma combat knife from its sheath with his right hand: drawing the weapon back, he then drove it through the side of the female vampire's skull, sinking the blade deep into her brain's left-hand lobe, and onwards through into the right.

The female vampire shuddered and trembled uncontrollably as Badger viciously twisted his knife, tearing through brain cells and rupturing blood vessels. In her spasms, the vampire's fangs tore free from Badger's throat: a fountain of blood promptly sprayed from Badger's jugular, gushing across the warehouse floor.

Roaring in agony by now, Badger ripped his knife from the female vampire's head as she slumped to the floor beside him, twitching and writhing as electrons in her ruined brain misfired over and over again. The knife clattered to the floor from Badger's limp fingers, and he pawed helplessly at his neck, blood gushing between his fingers; he gagged as he felt his throat filling with his own blood, felt the male vampire draining still more from his pinioned left arm…

With a rapid _crack-crack-crack_ of gunfire, the male vampire exploded into dust.

"Man down! _Man down!"_ Elijah 'Nick' Nicholson bellowed.

Badger tried to reply, but could only cough, spitting a fine mist of blood past his lips.

"Coming through! _Coming through!"_ Bel shouted, cracking off a quick couple of shots from her own carbine and dusting a nearby vampire as she rushed over. She dropped to her knees next to Badger, discarding her carbine and reaching into a pouch on her ops waistcoat even as Nick stood guard over the two of them, providing cover fire.

Pulling out a small transparent orb, Bel slapped it against Badger's sweat-slicked forehead, closed her eyes and muttered a quick incantation under her breath. The orb immediately glowed bright as the noonday sun on a clear summer's day, the illumination flooding the warehouse before fading away again as quickly as it had appeared.

Badger's back arched off the concrete floor as he hacked and coughed uncontrollably, struggling to draw breath as Bel snatched the orb away and tucked it back in its pouch. Rolling over onto all fours, Badger retched and heaved, and vomited up the blood that remained loose inside his windpipe.

The skin on Badger's throat was still covered in his blood, but the wound beneath had healed over with fresh pink healthy skin; the incisions on his arm had likewise healed over. Trembling from shock and unhealthily pale, Badger noisily drew in a raspy breath.

**[—]**

Several vampires swarmed out through the warehouse's fire exit and into the dingy little alleyway beyond, looking to escape.

Atop the edge of the roof of the neighbouring Warehouse 12, John 'Bull' Beckett took careful aim through the faintly glowing tritium-painted sights of his carbine and fired. "NOW!" he screamed over the net as the first vampire into the alley exploded into a cloud of ashes.

Three more Royal Marines from the SBS were with Bull on 'his' warehouse's roof; the other fire team were in position on the roof of Warehouse 13. Both fire teams opened up, blazing away on full automatic, gunning down vampires almost as quickly as they emerged from the fire exit.

Emptying his carbine's magazine, Bull reached down and forward, wrapping his right index finger around the trigger of the M203 grenade launcher fitted under the carbine's barrel. "Fry the bastards!" he ordered, triggering the launcher.

Another three launchers pumped white phosphorous grenades into the alley below, filling it with a burning tide that clung to everything it splashed, blazing and crackling merrily away. The orange and red flames glittered brightly in the obsidian night.

The Royal Marines quickly swapped out their magazines and reloaded their launchers, each man racing to resume firing as quickly as possible. Horrific screams and shrieks of agony rose up from the burning vampires in the alley, only to be mercifully cut off as a burst of Vampbuster rounds found a heart or a head.

**[—]**

Faith huffed out a deep breath in exultation as the last vampire within the warehouse exploded to ashes, a crossbow bolt through his head, and the building abruptly fell silent. A few final rattles of gunfire came from outside, before those died away too, leaving only the faint sound of crackling flames from the alleyway.

Nearby, Hastings was listening intently to his headset. "Copy that," he finally spoke into his headset mic, nodding. "Alpha Three Zero Alpha to all callsigns; I want this area secured. Alpha Three Zero and Bravo Seven Zero, sweep Silver One; Sierra Four Zero, secure the perimeter, I want nothing in or out."

"Izzat it?" Faith wondered aloud, her voice sounding surprisingly loud as she hefted her stakes, still ready for action. "We get 'em all?"

Hastings turned to Faith as the little task force began searching through the warehouse, weapons at the ready. "It would appear so, Slayer Faith," he said politely, his tone almost deferential. "If you'll excuse me for a moment…?" he trailed off, glancing pointedly over at where Badger was recovering.

"Hey, no problem, man, I _totally_ understand," Faith agreed, falling into step beside Hastings as he headed over; Xander followed along behind the Slayer, reloading his shotgun and remaining alert as ever.

"How's he doing, Bel?" Hastings asked.

"Badger needs a transfusion, a good kip, and a sugary breakfast, preferably in that order – he'll be good to go again after that," Bel reported.

"Sorry, Boss…" Badger wheezed, looking up from where he sat slumped against a stack of crates, unhealthily pale. "I should've seen those bastards coming…"

Hastings gave him a reassuring smile. "Don't worry about it. Nick, take him over to the wagons and rig a transfusion, would you?"

Nick nodded. "Boss," he said simply, slinging his carbine and helping Badger climb to his feet again.

"Jeremy, if you don't need me for anything else just now, I'm going to take a quick shufti around to see if I can turn up any int," said Bel.

Hastings nodded. "Go for it," he agreed.

"Smooth moves back there, Cap," Faith commented as Hastings turned back to face her again.

Hastings politely bowed his head. "Thank you, Slayer Faith. You and your team were most impressive. I'm just sorry we weren't much use against Kakistos, as things turned out."

"Hey, it's cool, man," said Faith. "It was worth a try – not like it's your fault his hide was too thick fer the Vampbusters t' dust him. 'Sides, you and your boys and girls damn near wiped out alla his minions, an' _that_ sure made life easier fer me an' my buds."

"Well, you're more than welcome," Hastings replied.

"By the way…" Faith said slowly, "…I couldn't help but notice how not alla your folks're completely human."

Hastings nodded, looking more than a little wary. "We _do_ have some demons and human-demon hybrids in our ranks," he admitted.

Faith gave him her most reassuring smile. "Don't worry, man: I'm not dumb enough to go 'round thinkin' 'all humans good, all demons bad' or some bullshit like that," she said.

Hastings visibly relaxed at that. "That's a relief."

"I've had a couple problems with Wolfram & Hart," Faith added by way of brief explanation.

Hastings' eyes widened slightly, and he gave a low whistle of surprise. "That would certainly do the trick…"

"I noticed pretty much from the moment I first met your, uh, platoon, or whatever it's called – sorry, I dunno much 'bout how militaries work an' are organised an' stuff," said Faith. "I didn't see much point in bringin' it up before we wasted Khaki Stops; figured you didn't need the distraction – but I thought I oughta let you know that _I_ know an' it's cool an' all with me… know what I mean? An' this seemed like a good time t' do that…"

"I quite understand, Slayer Faith, and your logic is perfectly sound," Hastings agreed with a nod and a smile. "I'm a little surprised, however – certain powerful factions of the Watchers' Council have, at best, never been all that comfortable with the idea of our military knowingly recruiting non-humans and half-humans into its ranks, and a lot of Slayers have consequently been raised with that ethos."

"Yeah, well, I ain't never _met_ any Watchers before," Faith told him. "Hell, fer alla the use the Council was when the Scourge a' frickin' Europe were paintin' this town red a couple months back, I don't even know if I wanna have _anything_ t' do with them. Don't get me wrong, if they got themselves some _real_ good reasons, then okay, I'll give 'em a fair shake an' all; but if not…?" She shrugged. "Anyway – you're from the SAS, right?"

"That's correct."

"Have you guys changed your unit badge-thingy lately, or 're you still using the 'Winged Dagger' design – the one that's also 'Excalibur in Flames'?"

Hastings blinked in surprise. "We're still using that, yes, and we've never changed it."

"Uh-huh… how much do you know about Slayers and their powers?"

Hastings shrugged. "Your strength, speed, agility, reflexes and senses are all enhanced… you have some sort of special instinct that lets you detect non-humans in general, but works especially well on vampires in particular…"

"Know much 'bout Slayer dreams?"

Hastings nodded. "Yes, I understand they're supposed to be prophetic?"

"Well, I had my first one two nights back," Faith told him. "The guys did some research, an' Jono turned up a lead that points to you guys… It was pretty vague, but _apparently_ we got ourselves a war t' fight together…"

"A _war_, you say?" Hastings asked, looking intrigued.

Faith nodded. "Yeah. You interested?"

Hastings grinned back at her. "I'm all ears."

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Las Vegas, Nevada**

The lift doors slid open, and a couple stumbled out into the hotel corridor beyond.

Staggering awkwardly, their lips locked passionately together and their arms wrapped around each other, Gina and Theo made their way one faltering distracted step at a time down the corridor, barely paying any attention to their surroundings. They were still dressed in the same clothes they'd worn during their battle in Springton, although neither of them carried any weapons or ammunition. Instead, they each now wore a plain gold ring.

At last they clumsily lurched to a stop outside the door to the hotel's honeymoon suite. Fumbling in Theo's jeans pocket, Gina pulled out a key card and reached behind herself to slide it into the slot. The lights flashed green, and Theo reached past Gina to turn the handle and hang a little sign on it.

Gina gave the door a gentle kick, sending it swinging open, then she backed into the room, giggling a little as she bodily pulled Theo inside after her. Still not breaking their kiss, Theo reached up, removed Gina's hat, and whirled it off to one side like a Frisbee, even as Gina lashed out with a dancer's grace to kick the door shut again.

The sign jiggled up and down on its string from the force of the impact, displaying a message for all the world to see:

**Do NOT Disturb – Just Married!**

**[—]**

A few minutes later, a pair of maids slowly pushed a pair of laundry carts full of bed linen down that particular corridor.

"Oh god oh god oh god OH GOD OH GOD I'M DY-_IIIIIIIINNNNNNG_ HHHNNNNAAAAAARR-_RRAAAAAHHHH_…!" an ecstatic feminine scream loudly emanated through the honeymoon suite's locked door, accompanied and interspersed with a chorus of moans, groans, soaring gasps and grunts. "Yes, yes, yes, _yes, yes, EEEEYYYYYYEEEEEESSSSS!"_

Not breaking step, the two maids exchanged glances. "What do you think?" one asked.

The second maid removed her left hand from the handle of her cart and made a 'so-so' gesture. "I make it an 'eight': damn good from the sounds of it, but the guy's not making much noise – I guess he must've gone diving – so it's hard to tell if he's enjoying himself as well or not."

The first maid nodded in sage agreement. "Yeah, I guess you're right – I woulda given them a 'nine' otherwise, maybe even a 'ten'."

An incoherent and deafeningly loud scream of blissful pleasure rang out at that moment, then slowly faded away to a faint whimpering.

"He's sure going the distance, from the sounds of it," the second maid calmly observed.

"Gotta be a nerdy guy," said the first maid. "One of those bookworms who's studied the Kama Sutra, or something like that."

"_That's_ a sucker bet," chuckled the second maid. "Macho he-men can _never_ make a gal feel _that_ good – the assholes never bother to learn."

The first maid smirked. "Right – it's not the size of the equipment that counts—"

"—it's if you know how to use it!" both maids chorused, grinning.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**16 Harmon Avenue, Washington D.C.**

Working a sandpaper block back and forth across the keel in smooth, even strokes, Gibbs heard his front door open upstairs.

"Boss?" Tony called out.

"Down here," Gibbs calmly shouted back.

A minute or so later, Tony descended the open-plan flight of stairs into the basement. "You _do_ know your front door was unlocked, right, Boss?" he asked, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.

"Yeah, I know, DiNozzo," Gibbs replied, not looking up from his work.

"Ohhhh-kay…" Tony sounded puzzled as he looked around. "You building something, Boss?"

Gibbs nodded, finally looking up. "Yeah – a boat."

Tony cocked his head to one side as he considered the partially assembled mess of beams. "Huh," he grunted, intrigued. "Cool. So, what'd you need to see me about, Boss?"

"Got somethin' in the mail while we were working the Donaghue case," Gibbs said. "Two packages." He tapped a parcel wrapped in brown paper sitting on his saw horse. "This one's yours. I already opened mine."

"What is it?" Tony asked, picking up the package and starting to rip it open.

Gibbs gave him a lopsided smile. "Oh, you'll see," he said mysteriously. "It's from the gang in Sunnydale."

Finally casting the paper aside, Tony found himself looking at a cardboard box. Opening it and digging through a layer of foam packing peanuts, he found a framed photograph below – the photo that had been taken of the group at Sunnydale's airport.

Tony grinned as he stared at the photo. Most of the group – specifically all those who weren't Slayers, Terminators, or former US Marines – were visibly exhausted, but they all looked good, most of them smiling in relief or joy at being alive. A free and easy smile was on Faith's face, while even Gibbs was cracking a small triumphant grin beside her.

Xander loomed behind the Slayer's shoulder, his face a blank mask: a faint red light was just barely visible beneath the left-side lens of his shades. Warren, Andrew and Jonathan were huddled together, looking elated and nervous. Oz was cracking a lopsided grin of his own, in his habitual understated manner. Finally, Tony saw himself, grinning as widely if he'd just been told he'd won the lottery, standing behind the teenage boys and next to Xander.

"It's great, Boss," Tony said quietly.

"Yeah. Drink, DiNozzo?" Gibbs offered as he set down the block and wiped his hands off on a rag.

Tony nodded, carefully setting down the box and the photo within. "Sure – thanks, Boss."

Crossing over to his workbench, Gibbs unscrewed an old jam jar full of screws and tipped its contents out, then set the jar next to an old coffee mug. Taking a bottle of liquor, he opened it and poured a generous couple of fingers' worth into both the mug and the jar, before handing the latter to Tony and taking a sip from the former.

Peering at the jar, Tony shrugged and took a sip. "Whoa!" he gasped, spluttering and coughing a little. "Got quite a kick to it – what is it?"

"Alcoholic," Gibbs replied, perfectly deadpan.

Tony shrugged and grinned. "Okay."

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Initiative Base of Operations Echo Four, Sunnydale, CA**

"You wanted to see me, Director?"

"Indeed I did, Agent Finn," Walsh said, not deigning to look up at Finn's approach, staring through the window of Room 305's adjoining observation room. "It concerns Project 305."

"Yes, ma'am?" Finn glanced dispassionately through the window at the zombie that had once been Sergeant Michele Romero.

The zombie was still securely strapped down to a surgical bed; however, all four of its limbs had since been amputated and its lower jaw removed. The zombie's eyes now rolled every which way while a bizarre groan issued forth from what was left of its throat, the inch-long stumps of its limbs waving helplessly.

"The project looks very promising," said Walsh, still staring at the zombie. "It has the potential to produce a highly effective bioweapon, especially if we can work out how to make the infection airborne."

"Just what President Carlton wants." Finn smiled broadly. "That's excellent news, ma'am."

"There's one problem," said Walsh. "We need to find out precisely how this… condition… is contracted, how it is spread and so on. That means we need some more test subjects to monitor and document for study. And _that_ is where you and your men come in." Walsh finally turned to stare Finn squarely in the eye. "I want you to acquire some live test subjects for Project 305 from the local civilian population."

Finn nodded calmly. "I assume you want _human_ test subjects, ma'am?"

"Yes. We'll need a wide range – both genders, different races, different ages, various medical conditions… you get the idea. I suggest you start with Sunnydale's surplus population – a town this size should have plenty of vagrants in it."

"Actually, ma'am, Sunnydale doesn't," Finn said, a faintly apologetic tone in his voice. "We're pretty sure that's because of the HSTs, particularly the haemovores. Homeless folks must make for an easily accessible food source. There's only one vagrant in Sunnydale who we know of. Some of the guys're taking bets on how long he's gonna last. I guess someone's gonna notice if he disappears – the amateurs in particular are surprisingly alert to things like that."

"_Ah."_ Walsh drew in a deep breath, then nodded slowly. "Alright… the local hospital has a psyche ward, doesn't it?"

"Uh, no, Director – the town has its own psychiatric institute instead."

"Really?" Walsh asked, sounding intrigued. "Alright. Start there – see if any John or Jane Does have been admitted there and are unidentified. If you find any, acquire them. Use any means you deem necessary. Those sorts of people are less likely to be missed. If all else fails, check any runaway shelters in town for suitable subjects."

Finn nodded. "Yes, Director – I'll put a couple of squads together and see what we can get."

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Buenos Aires, Argentina**

"Oh, Miss Edith… I feel their lives and their destinies spilling out before me," Drusilla said aloud, sitting on an overgrown park bench and staring fixedly up at the starry skies with eyes that were unseeing and unfocused. "The first world shall soon awaken, and then the next cycle can begin.

"Now there are two, shining warriors of light. But in time there will be four, glorious in their awakening. The second will soon return like the phoenix from the flames and the ashes, before the fourth is Called. In time, this compass of light shall guide the world to dance among the stars and beyond.

"Struggling with the knowledge of their new selves, the painful revelation of rebirth bringing new clarity, and in the midst of confusion, the fourth will find the first. Enemies will be brought together by an impossible bond; new friends will be joined as one.

"The kitten is the guardian of the third. He cannot be reasoned with. He cannot be bargained with. He feels no pity or remorse or fear… he absolutely will not stop. And, deep down, he is so very, very… _shiny_.

"The Three shall fall, their empire cast down in ruin; the First shall fail to find its path, hopelessly lost in the strands of time. The Trio shine brightly and shall shine still brighter yet; while the black witch sleeps in a slumber that will never be disturbed along this path. The god of death schemes within his tomb, making ready to return to stain the stars red with blood; and the silly goddess who is also a silly man seeks her key.

"The best of intentions lead a scholar to further ruination and damnation; men and women plot in the shadows' dark embrace, hiding from the light and its warriors. My own existence inches along to a close, only to begin anew, in ways uncertain. All of this has happened before, and it will happen again… again… again… again… again… again… again… again… again."

With a startled giggle, Drusilla shook her head, her eyes focusing once more, and she looked back down at her dolls. "More tea, Miss Edith?" she offered, picking up a thermos flask.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**A/N:** I'm truly sorry it's taken me so long to update – unfortunately, real life has been especially problematic and time-consuming of late. I promise I'll be able to update quicker next time, though – that's a given. The next episode, _Foundations of a Future_, is on its way.

Many thanks to everyone on TtH and FFN who's reviewed: I treasure each and every one of them. Please keep them coming…

I'll be back,

El ;)


	12. Chapter 12

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**No Fate: The Collected Data Files**

**Chapter Twelve – Foundations of a Future**

**Tuesday 5th November 2030**

– **ERROR – ERROR – ERROR –**

**ERROR CODE 746 IS IN EFFECT:**

**DIVERGENT TEMPORAL INSTABILITY DETECTED**

**CONTINUITY DISRUPTION IN PROGRESS –**

**MF 000396-A, New Mexico**

The manufacturing facility's spartan corridor echoed loudly as two pairs of booted feet marched down it. No effort was made at stealth; there was simply no need.

Despite the similarities in their clothing and equipment, they were still a very mismatched pair. They were both clad in well-worn dull grey-and-blue urban camouflage fatigues and heavily armed; each carried a bullpup-pattern phased plasma assault rifle, a holstered pistol and several hand grenades.

One member of the odd couple appeared to be a teenage girl, slender and fragile in her build with long and flowing glossy chestnut-brown hair that reached almost to her waist. In truth, however, her appearance was a deception. The nametape on her fatigues read _CAMERON (TOK)_.

The other was a man who looked far older than his forty-five years. A long narrow scar ran across his face, over his eye and marring his left cheek. His dark eyes were windows to a soul that had long ago been made ancient by the war he'd literally been born into, a war that had enveloped the world and raged across the gulfs of time itself. Velcroed to the breast of his fatigues was a nametape that simply read _CONNOR._

At last they reached the hatchway that was their destination. Easily hefting her plasma rifle one-handed by its pistol grip, Cameron raised her gloved right hand and tapped a twenty-digit code into the keypad beside the hatch, her fingers dancing with inhuman speed across the buttons.

There was a hissing sound, then series of metallic clicks and a grinding of mechanisms. At last, the six components of the armoured hatch split apart, admitting them to the factory floor.

Easily ten storeys high, the cavernous space was crammed to the rafters with bank after bank of machinery and computers. Grill mesh gantry-ways and spiral staircases surrounded each of the dozens of completely automated assembly lines.

Two 740 Series Terminators blocked Connor and Cameron's path as the hatch cycled closed behind them. The gleaming chrome skeletons towered over Connor and Cameron, the red lights of their optical sensors glowing brightly in the dimly-lit factory.

The T-740s were armed with phased plasma battle rifles. Despite the weapons' bulk and weight, each Terminator easily wielded its powerful bullpup-pattern rifle in one hand. The pencil-thin red beams of the laser weapons sights stabbed out from beneath the rifles' barrels and locked on directly between Connor and Cameron's eyes.

"John Connor, DN 59165, Black King," Connor rattled off reflexively. "Knight takes Pawn. Checkmate in six moves."

The targeting laser aimed at Connor instantly flicked off.

"Cameron, TOK-716, DN 20483, White Knight," Cameron recited. "Bishop to King Four. Double check and mate."

The second T-740 promptly disengaged its rifle's laser sight, and the two Terminators stood aside to allow them to pass.

A baby-faced young corporal jogged over, her boots ringing loudly on the mesh grill. Her fatigues bore shoulder flashes that indicated she was a member of Tech-Com. "General Connor, sir!" she said nervously, snapping off a smart salute, which Connor instinctively returned. "The colonel sends her compliments, and says she's almost finished the, uh, th-the first one, sir," she fumbled, briefly casting an uncertain glance at Cameron, who feigned not to notice.

John Connor nodded brusquely. "Very good, Corporal – lead on," he ordered.

**[—]**

The little party wound its way around the factory floor, until at last they arrived at a control room that was almost bursting at the seams with computers, monitors and control panels. A dozen technicians were seated before the controls, exchanging data and updates.

An officer stood at the eye of the storm, entering the verbal chaos every so often to issue an order, demand a status report, or offer quiet encouragement. Somewhere in her early thirties, she was an attractive woman with jet-black hair and flashing dark eyes that lent her a somewhat exotic appearance, while her height and build indicated she'd grown up with access to a diet and exercise regime that few people had been able to avail themselves of since Judgement Day.

"Colonel Calendar," Connor said quietly. "I hear you've nearly finished?"

Jenny Calendar nodded as she turned to face the general. "Yes, sir," she said. "We're due to begin the final phase in six minutes."

Connor nodded as he ran his gaze over the data displayed on the monitors, expertly compiling the information in his mind. "Can your people handle this without you, Colonel?" he asked.

Jenny blinked, surprised. "Uh, yes, sir, but why—?"

Connor jerked his head toward the control room door. "C'mon, then," he said.

"Sergeant Harriman, you're in charge 'til I get back," Jenny called over her shoulder as she fell into step beside Connor, while Cameron took up a watchful position behind them.

The corporal dithered uncertainly for a moment; noticing, Connor paused and grinned at her. "You too, Corporal," he told her. "It's not every day you get to see something like this."

"Uh, y-yes, sir," she stammered, and quickly fell into step beside Cameron, casting nervous glances at her.

"Sir, where are we going?" Jenny asked as they headed back out onto the factory floor.

"I want to be there when he's completed," Connor said tersely.

Jenny nodded. "I… see, sir," she said, sounding puzzled. "Well, it's just over this way, sir…"

**[—]**

Together, they stood before the gleaming silver metal cylinder at the end of one of the legions of assembly lines.

Waiting.

There were six of them, all told. General John Connor, leader of the Resistance, living legend and Skynet's long-time nemesis. Cameron, his ever-watching, ever-alert bodyguard. Lieutenant Colonel Jenny Calendar, commanding officer of the 41st Electronic Warfare Battalion from the 132nd Tech-Com Division. Corporal Vanessa Briscoe, one of nearly three hundred technicians under Jenny's command, who fidgeted almost constantly. And last but definitely not least, two T-740s that Jenny had personally reprogrammed, and which had already been guarding the machine when Connor's party had arrived.

A computer monitor was suspended at eye-level before the cylinder, displaying a message, glistening white letters on a black background:

**CYBORG TISSUE GENERATION**

**800 SERIES MODEL 101**

**SEQUENCE**

As they watched, the monitor flashed, fresh text scrolling across it as it updated:

**CYBORG TISSUE GENERATION**

**800 SERIES MODEL 101**

**SEQUENCE INITIATED**

"Not long now," Jenny murmured, sounding nervous.

Connor glanced over, favouring her with a small lopsided smile. "You've done a great job here, Colonel. If this works… well, it'll be one more nail in Skynet's coffin, and a pretty big one too."

Jenny awkwardly smiled back. "Honestly, sir, we got lucky more than anything – capturing this place completely intact was a one-in-a-billion shot that just happened to pay off."

Connor snorted, amused. "Give yourself a _little_ credit, Colonel. No one else has your kind of talent for breaking Skynet's programming. Without you, all this—" he gestured vaguely at the surrounding assembly lines, "—would just be one giant pile of useless junk. Now, it can help us to win this damn war."

"We still don't know for sure if this will work – we may not know for years, or even decades," Jenny reminded him.

"Colonel, when you first came up with your theory that the reason for incidents where our Terminators revert to their original programming – like the Triple-Eight at Depot II – was because they _had_ original programming in the first place, you were pretty damn confident, and with good reason," said Connor.

"We've come a long way in understanding Terminators since then," Jenny replied. "And yet we still know so little…"

Connor shook his head. "I agreed with you then and I still agree with you now," he insisted. "And I never agree with anyone unless they're right. Have a little faith in yourself. And if you can't do that, then at least have a little faith in _me_, okay?"

Jenny bit her lip. "Y-yes, sir… but sir, there's just no way to know for certain if a Terminator that's been programmed from the ground up – so to speak – to fight _against_ Skynet will continue to follow that programming, or if the problem we've had with our machines in the past is… is something more _fundamental_ than software. And it's worth bearing in mind that dozens of machines have defected to our side on their own initiative in the past, and even _they_ can't fully explain why they did it, how they became sentient enough to override their own programming."

"It's worth a try, Colonel, especially since opportunities like this only turn up once in a blue moon," said Connor.

"I just hope we're not making a colossal mistake, is all," Jenny sighed.

"I have every confidence in your abilities, Colonel," Connor told her, a firm 'no-nonsense' tone creeping into his voice. "You should too."

Jenny smiled back. "Thank you, sir," she said quietly. "I just… if only Rupert could see this."

Connor chuckled, relaxing a little. "Yeah… good old Ripper."

A faint bleeping sound rang out from a nearby speaker, and the monitor updated:

**CYBORG TISSUE GENERATION**

**800 SERIES MODEL 101**

**SEQUENCE COMPLETED**

Faint wisps of steam rose from the machinery as the cylinder split lengthways into two halves, sliding smoothly open.

Standing on the platform where the cylinder had been was an enormous muscle-bound figure who looked like a man. Upon seeing him, a casual observer might have said he was 'as naked as the day he was born'.

In many ways, it was indeed a birth that had just taken place.

But the being who stepped down from the platform onto the grill mesh was no man.

The T-740s and Cameron trained their rifles on the newly-completed 800 Series Terminator, their targeting lasers forming a triangle of three red dots on his forehead.

Undaunted, Connor stepped forward, looking up and staring the Terminator squarely in the eye. "What is your mission?" Connor asked.

Behind him, Jenny gulped. Placing her right hand behind her back, she crossed her fingers and screwed her eyes tightly closed.

"My primary mission is to assist de Resistance and defeat Skynet," rumbled the T-800. His deep Austrian-accented voice sounded instantly familiar to the assembled Resistance fighters. "My secondary mission iss to liberate Terminators and other machines from Skynet's controll if de opportunity shoult arise, and de ranking Resistance fighter present hass ordered me to make de attempt; if no Resistance fighters are present, I am to make de attempt only if it does not compromise my ability to fulfil my primary mission."

Connor slowly nodded, then half-turned away from the T-800. "Stand down," he ordered.

In perfect unison, Cameron and the T-740s snapped off their rifles' targeting lasers and lowered their weapons.

Jenny risked opening her eyes again and slowly released a deep breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding.

Glancing off to one side, Jenny saw that Briscoe was gaping openly at the T-800, her cheeks flushing a deep crimson, her eyes staring low enough that there was no possible way she could be meeting the gaze of the impossibly perfect Adonis-like Terminator; instead, her attention was firmly fixed 'south of the border'. Jenny smirked and shook her head slightly, amused.

"Colonel?" Connor's inquiry derailed Jenny's train of thought. "Are any of the assembly lines damaged?"

Jenny shook her head. "No, sir," she reported. "Everything's still in full working order, and we can set every line in the place running on your command."

"Good. Your initial report said there's a large stockpile of raw materials and components for Terminator construction on-site, correct?"

"Y-yes, yes, sir," Jenny replied.

"How many Terminators can you build here with the resources you've got to hand?"

"Um… at a conservative estimate…" Jenny paused, her mind racing, "…six, maybe seven hundred 800s or 801s. We can't build anything more advanced than Triple-Eights, and obviously the more advanced the machines we build, the fewer we can afford to construct, while the reverse is also true – the less advanced they are, the more we can construct."

"I want this place fully spun up and working on Triple-Eights and T-740s inside of the next hour," Connor ordered. "How many can you give me on a one-to-one ratio?"

"Call it at least three hundred of each, bare minimum," Jenny replied. "We'll definitely end up building more than that – I just don't know precisely how _many_ more yet; maybe a dozen to two-dozen."

"How many of those can be finished inside of twenty-four hours?"

"That's only long enough for each assembly line to complete one Terminator each, so a hundred and twenty-eight machines. However, the second batch of 740s can be completed within twenty-_six_ hours."

Connor gave a curt and final nod. "Do it," he ordered. "Corporal Briscoe?"

Still staring at the T-800's bare loins, Briscoe barely acknowledged her own name. "Mmm?"

Following Briscoe's gaze, Connor looked back at her and smirked, amused, and then glanced briefly over at Jenny; Jenny could only grimace in embarrassment and stare down at the mesh beneath her feet.

"Cameron?" said Connor, turning to his bodyguard. "Snap Corporal Briscoe out of it, would ya? Gently."

Cameron nodded in silent obedience and slung her rifle across her back; marching over to Briscoe, Cameron gently but firmly cupped the corporal's cheeks in her hands and leaned in to kiss the young woman on the lips.

Briscoe snapped out of her daze to find Cameron passionately kissing her, the Terminator's tongue slipping between her lips and exploring her mouth's interior. Briscoe gave a muffled squawk of shock around Cameron's tongue and raised her hands, a little fearful and very confused, blushing in embarrassment.

"That's enough, thanks, Cameron," Connor called out; instantly, Cameron pulled away from Briscoe and returned to Connor's side, sliding her rifle around ready for use as she did so.

"Uh – uh – s-sir?" Briscoe asked. "Uh… wh-wha—?"

"Are you back with us now, Corporal Briscoe?" Connor interrupted mock-sternly.

"Uh, y-yes, sir!" Briscoe stammered.

"Good." Connor jerked his head towards where the T-800 stood silently watching the proceedings. "Take him to your battalion quartermaster's office and get him issued with fatigues, weapons and other gear, then send him to me."

"Yes, sir!" Briscoe snapped out, smartly saluting with her left hand by mistake. Connor feigned not to notice, trying not to show too much amusement as a still-blushing Briscoe quickly left with the T-800 in tow.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Friday 8th November 2030**

**Huntress Compound, Wyoming**

"Sir, what exactly do you expect me to do with _him?"_ Major General Perry asked, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at where the sentinel-like T-800 stood in the corner of his office.

"What's the problem?" Connor asked, glancing over at the silent Terminator.

Perry snorted. "He's obsolete, _that's_ the problem," he replied. "Skynet's fielding Triple-Eights as its main infiltration units now – a T-800 might, just _might_ have a chance against one of those, but if he runs into one of the new 920s, or a T-X? That's suicide!"

"And how well does a human being compare to a 920 or a T-X?" Connor asked, his tone mild.

Perry huffed out a deep breath. "Even worse," he conceded.

"Besides, when was the last time anyone reported sighting a T-X since Eliza? And she's on _our_ side now."

"I take your point, sir," said Perry. "But the 920s are still a problem."

Connor shook his head. "Not as much as they used to be. Skynet still hasn't built any new ones since the Scalpers nuked the Dallas plant last year."

"But, sir… Look, I _understand_ that you built a T-800 first to test out if Calendar's 'programming-from-scratch' plan would work or not," said Perry, "'cause the 800's got the exact same combat chassis as the 740 Series, so if it'd gone belly-up then Cameron there and Calendar's pet T-740s coulda put him down nice an' easy between her smarts and their strength.

"Well, now you know it works, and that's great, but the problem is I have absolutely no idea what I'm supposed to _do_ with him now we've _got_ him," Perry continued. "We _could_ always upgrade him to T-850 specs, but even 850s are obsolete these days."

Connor nodded thoughtfully. "Okay," he said at last. "Okay. Send him to Topanga Canyon."

Perry raised an incredulous eyebrow. "You want to send him back in time?"

"Yes. We've got intel confirming that Skynet's sending more and more Greys back into the past, right?" said Connor. "They're going back to do exactly what our people are doing – assembling caches of supplies and equipment, trying to change things just enough to give their side an advantage.

"The Greys are human, so they're better-suited for long-term infiltration missions into the past than any Terminator that Skynet's got – well, any Terminator short of a TOK. And the way things are going, Skynet needs as many Terminators in _this_ timeframe as it can possibly get, so it can't afford to send too many back to the past without really good reasons."

"Right," Perry agreed. "Hell, the war here is the whole reason Skynet shifted away from infiltration when it first brought out the 900 Series range – no skin sheath, no camouflage, no infiltration programming… When you get down to it, those damned 920s're really just improved 740s. Maybe the 920's faster and its combat chassis's tougher, but they still do the same job in the same way."

"And seeing how it's impossible to fit a 900 range design with an infiltration hardware/software package, none of _them_ will be making any time jumps," said Connor. "That's gotta increase Skynet's reliance on using the Greys to fight for it on the Temporal Front."

"…And Greys know precisely _dick_ about how to fight Terminators," Perry realised, looking over at the T-800.

Connor grinned. "There you go," he said. "Send _him_—" he gestured at the Terminator, "—up against a cell of – what? Half a dozen Greys? A dozen, two dozen, even? – in the past, with no access to anything more advanced than firearms? He'll just wade right through them all and there won't be a _damned_ thing they could possibly do to stop him."

Perry shifted uncomfortably. "General… Sir, uh… Y-Your mother managed to destroy the T-800 sent to kill her in 1984, and she didn't even know how to handle a gun back then," he pointed out.

Connor sighed as he stared Perry straight in the eye. "My mother… my mother was an extraordinary woman, Perry," Connor said softly. "She was one in a million, maybe one in a billion. She was very smart, very creative… and, honestly? She was also very, _very_ lucky.

"It's very unlikely that any Grey in the past will be similarly lucky, or smart, or creative," Connor continued; Perry nodded in agreement at that. "And besides, I'm not thinking of sending the T-800 back on his own – I want him to hook up with one of our units that's already in place in the past. They'll find the Greys' hideouts, then send in the 800 while they form cut-off groups and secure the area if the Greys have weight of numbers on their side, a defensible position, or both.

"Our people will play it smart – _unlike_ the T-800 in 1984 did. That machine was operating without support and had no experience of the past. If he had had either one of those things to assist him, he probably _would_ have killed my mother, and then… well, history would be very different."

Perry cracked a grin at that. "Talk about the understatement of the year, sir," he told the younger man.

Connor returned the grin. "I know. I also want to take a few of the new Triple-Eights from '396, and send them back to do the same job. Maybe send one to work with the same unit as the 800, just in case they run into a Skynet Triple-Eight or a TOK unit. One of our Triple-Eights and an 800 working together should be able to take care of that."

Perry nodded, then tapped a few keys to call up a series of lists on the monitor before them. "Okay… so, where and when do you wanna send the 800, sir?"

Connor studied the data intently, rubbing his chin. "How about… _there?"_ he said, indicating a unit listing.

"That's Lieutenant Berkeley's unit from the 21st Recon Company – B Troop," said Perry. "She's a damn good soldier, a good leader – hell, she could have _my_ job one day," he finished with a grin.

"I'll keep that in mind," Connor said lightly. "How do her people feel about working with our Terminators?"

Perry shrugged. "They worked okay with Solo at Vicksburg and Houston, I know that much."

"Solo… he's an 850, right? We sent him back last June to intercept the first T-X in 2004?"

"That's him," Perry confirmed. "Okay, B Troop didn't bond with Solo like the Hell-Hounds have done with his older brother Glitch, or the Scalpers with Eliza… but you gotta remember, it took the Hell-Hounds a few missions to warm up to Glitch, and both units fought against Eliza back when she was trying to kill you so it took the Scalpers _months_ to get used to her. B Troop knew Solo for a total of, what? Call it five days, total, for two missions?"

"So it's not really surprising they didn't get all buddy-buddy with Solo… You think Berkeley's people will work okay with _him_, then?" Connor asked, jerking his head in the T-800's direction.

Perry smirked. "Just so long as you remember to set this one's chip to 'write' mode this time, then yeah, I think so."

Connor winced. "Don't remind me… I _still_ can't believe I sent Bob back stuck in 'read only'…" he said regretfully.

"Well, according to your updated memories, you and your mom fixed _that_ soon enough," Perry consoled him.

Connor chuckled. "Yeah… at least there's that."

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**A/N:** I'm terribly sorry about the delay since my last update: I had to respond to a family emergency. (Nothing too serious, as things turned out.) The next episode will be up fairly soon.

Many thanks to everyone on TtH and FFN who's reviewed: I treasure each and every one of them. Please keep them coming…

I'll be back,

El ;)


	13. Chapter 13

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**No Fate: The Collected Data Files**

**Chapter Thirteen – Always a Little Further Part One**

**Thursday 12th June 1997**

"_Man walks into a pub…"_

Clad in trainers, a t-shirt, and matching blue denim jacket and jeans, Faith lay sprawled across an armchair.

"'_Pint of Best,' he says to the barman."_

Plasti-cuffs bound her hands in front of her; lengths of wide silver-grey duct tape were wound around her body, some tightly securing her arms to her torso and other lengths binding her ankles and knees together. The Slayer was breathing heavily in fear, frustration and anticipation. Her eyes were constantly in motion, flickering around the room as she struggled in vain, the thin cuffs digging painfully into her wrists.

"_While waiting for his drink, he notices Vincent Van Gogh sitting at a table."_

It was a fairly small living room, modestly furnished. Tacky old-fashioned floral-pattern wallpaper covered the walls. A sofa and two matching armchairs were arrayed around a television set, which was tuned to a game show called _Countdown_.

"_He goes up to him and says, 'Are you Vincent? Are you Vincent Van Gogh?'"_ the show's presenter continued in his thick Yorkshire accent. _"'Yes,' the other man replies."_

Floral-patterned curtains covered the only window. The room's only light came from a pair of lamps and the television. Faith's chair was tucked away in the corner, with the three-piece suite between her and both the window and the room's only door.

"'_Do you want a pint?'"_

Clad in old West German military camouflage fatigues, combat boots and balaclavas, four terrorists occupied the room's three-piece suite, watching the show, their weapons – a mix of old-model Kalashnikov carbines and Colt AR-18s – across their laps or propped up next to them within easy reach, ready for use. Firing on full automatic, any one of the weapons could cut the Slayer in half at such close range. Escape was simply not an option for her.

"_The other man says, 'No, thanks, I've got one 'ere.'"_ the show's presenter concluded, much to his studio audience's amusement.

At that moment, there was a deafening rumble as the door exploded, vanishing in a cloud of flying splinters and shrapnel.

The explosion's powerful pressure wave pounded into Faith's ears like a pair of sledgehammers beating her eardrums. As her eyes widened and she let out a deep _whuf!_ of breath in shock and discomfort, she saw _them_: black and indistinct inhuman shapes in the darkness beyond the doorway, _presences_ first and solid beings second.

Torches blazed brightly from beneath the barrels of their weapons as they burst inside accompanied by the rapid-fire flash and crackle of gunfire, deafening in such a confined space. Bullets ripped into the terrorists' bodies, shredding the over-stuffed cushions beneath them; a couple of shots hit the television set, shattering the glass.

A beam of torchlight landed on the masked face of the terrorist nearest Faith a split-second before two shots blew his head apart in a neat and precise double-tap. A red and sticky substance splashed across the Slayer's face and covered her cheeks, making her flinch.

An instant later, Faith felt gloved hands on her – grabbing her by the waist, snatching her up from the chair, bodily throwing her out the door to another waiting pair of strong gloved hands that promptly spun her about and launched her into the air; a second later, another of the black wraiths caught her.

Dazed and shocked, Faith found herself going limp and relaxing as the rampaging monsters in black hurled her from one of their number to another like a bizarre game of pass-the-parcel, until at last she was half-carried and half-dragged out of the building and into the sunlight, where she was thrown down onto a neatly-trimmed patch of lawn.

Two black-clad figures loomed over the Slayer, who blinked up at them in the daylight. Faith could hear her own breathing echoing loudly in her ears; everything else sounded so very distant and indistinct, as if she were lying in a full bathtub with her ears under the water's surface.

Pulling off their bulbous-eyed gas masks and rolling up their balaclavas, the monsters revealed themselves to be men: both in their late twenties or early thirties, Faith thought. Both had fairly long short close-cropped hair; one was black, the other white with ginger hair and alabaster skin.

Pulling off his gloves, the black man kneeled down beside Faith, and ran a finger through the sticky red substance that was spattered across her face. Putting his finger in his mouth, he sucked it clean as he pulled it out, then turned and nodded up at his colleague, lips moving as he started to say something.

Faith couldn't make out what he was saying; she opened her mouth and worked her jaw around until at last her ears popped gently.

"…thought so: watermelon – nice touch," the black man's words filtered fuzzily through the remaining fog in Faith's ears. "Tasty one, too."

"Sorry, pet," the white man told Faith, then tapped his fingertips against his ear. "Mah fault – over prressure. 'Fraid Ah musta overdid the explosives jest a wee bit on the doorr, there. Yerr hearin's oot of whack, right?" He shook his head and offered her an encouraging smile. "Dinnae worry – that'll settle doon soon enough. Ah'm _rreal_ sorry 'boot that."

Faith cracked a faint grin. "Ah, no prob, man – Slayer healing, remember?" she replied. "Gimme a minute an' it'll sort itself out, I'll be five-by-five again in no time."

"Alright, Faith?" Newton asked loudly, approaching from where he'd been lounging against the side of a British Army Land Rover, Xander at his side. "You having fun yet?"

"Yeah, I think so," Faith replied, spotting more SAS soldiers calmly filing out of the buildings of the Killing House complex. "Someone wanna let me outta this?" she asked, struggling a little against her bonds for emphasis and writhing around like a snake in the grass.

"_Awww_, and I thought you'd enjoy having a chance to hone your Houdini routine," Newton replied in mock-disappointment as he crouched down beside her.

Faith offered him a good-natured grin. "Har-_har,"_ she calmly replied, making a fist with her right hand and extending her middle finger in Newton's direction. "Now get on with untying me or you're gonna fuckin' live t' _regret_ untying me."

"You know, that doesn't make a lot of logical sense," Newton pointed out as he unsheathed his combat knife and carefully sliced through Faith's plasti-cuffs.

"What, do I _look_ like Mr Spock t' you?" Faith demanded.

"That's true; Leonard Nimoy has _way_ more sex appeal than you do," Newton agreed with her, while he tore off strips of duct tape.

"_Hey!"_ Faith protested as she massaged her wrists, then pulled a tissue from her jacket and started wiping the watermelon debris from her face. "I could take him!"

"To bed?" Newton asked incredulously, then let out a low whistle as Faith rolled her eyes. "Shit, I never figured _you_ for a Trekkie-girl, but oh-_kaaaaaay_ then…

"Anyway: Faith the Vampire Slayer, Xander the Terminator; meet Red Team of the Counter-Terrorist team, currently supplied by D Squadron," Newton continued, holding out a hand and pulling Faith to her feet before pointing to each member of the troop in turn, "In no particular order: Deano Smith—"

The black soldier nearest Faith gave her an affable nod.

"—Adi Naughton—"

The white ginger-haired soldier favoured her with a quick thumb's-up.

"—Chris White, Baz Braddock, Deb Miles, Chemo Blue, Kiwi Phil, Croc Dundee, Kath Sturruck, Gerry Turner, Max Foreman, Jacko Wyse, Col Atlee, Rosco Collins, Matt Milroy, Bagpuss Kittredge, Bruce Campbell, Lex Luthor and Biccie McVitie," Newton finished.

"Croc Dundee?" Faith asked, incredulous. Sticking her finger in her ear, she wiggled it about until the pressure equalised properly.

"Aye," Croc growled; at six feet seven inches tall and nearly two hundred pounds, he was easily the biggest man in the group. His MP5A3 looked like a toy in his shovel-like hands. "An' Ah want tae get this clear _rright_ fookin' noo: Ah'm nae an Aussie, Ah'm a fookin' Scot; Ah jest got the name 'Michael Dundee' an' muh nickname's th' prroduct o' fookin' squaddie logic, a'rright?"

Faith nodded. "Okay, gotcha."

"An' Ah en't neverr knifed nae fookin' crrocs, neitherr – shootin' th' scaley hissy fookers is guid enough ferr me," Croc continued.

Faith winced. "You get that a lot, huh?" she said sympathetically.

Croc grimaced. "Ye've got _nae_ fookin' idea," he agreed.

A short and bald thickset plug of a man in assault gear stormed out of the Killing House, glowering around at Red Team. _"That_ was utter _shit,"_ he growled.

"And _this_ is Red Team's fearless leader – cuddly Nate Bailey," Newton continued in a joking tone of voice, gesturing at the newcomer.

"Not only did we overdo the explosives, we overdid the time as well," Nate continued, eyes flickering around the team's members, completely ignoring Newton, Faith and Xander. "We should have been in and out in fifteen seconds; eighteen max: _that_ took _twenty_ seconds… And who shot the TV?"

"Oh, Ah did that," said Adi. "It was Richard Whitely. Ah felt he posed a risk to life so Ah used necessary forrce."

"Fair enough," Nate conceded, slightly mollified.

"Who's Richard Whitely?" Faith muttered to Newton.

"TV game show presenter; does _Countdown_," Newton explained in similarly hushed tones.

Faith nodded in understanding. _"Ah_, right."

"We're good, but we need to get even better," Nate continued. "I know we're short-handed just now, but it's _not_ a valid excuse. It should be a fucking doddle for us to get in there, slot the x-rays, grab the gimps, and bug out in fifteen seconds flat, job done and dusted – which is why we'll be doing it again, and again, and _again_, until we finally get it fucking _right_.

"Anyway… on a brighter note: Slayer Faith, Terminator Xander, welcome to the madhouse," Nate said, turning to Faith and Xander as he cracked a wry lopsided grin. "Hope you remembered to bring your straitjackets."

Faith snorted in amusement at that. "Thanks, man."

"You enjoy the Killing House?"

"Yeah, makes a change. What's next?"

Newton clapped Faith on the shoulder. "Let's put it on," he said.

"Put… _what_ on?" Faith asked, puzzled but intrigued.

Newton grinned. "The _best_ suit you'll ever wear… Embassy Black Tie!"

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**The Council of Watchers' Headquarters, London**

Quentin Travers released a heavy sigh, then turned away from his office window and politely smiled as his guest was shown in. "John – so good of you to come," he said by way of greeting, proffering his hand.

John, Lord Marbury, Earl of Croy, Marquess of Needham and Dolby, and Baronet of Brycey – to list only his most notable of titles – grinned from ear to ear as he all but bounded across the Watcher's office, seized Quentin's hand and crushed it in his own enthusiastic grip as he shook it. "Quentin, old sock!" he cried. "I wouldn't have missed this for all the beautiful witches in Devon."

Quentin winced as he extricated his hand from the peer's grasp. "I rather suspected as much," he said as diplomatically as he could manage under the circumstances, waving for Marbury to take one of the leather wing armchairs arrayed a little way from his desk. "Would you care for a drink?" he offered, gesturing toward the decanters arrayed on the office's sideboard.

"Mmmmm… It's still the morning, isn't it?" Marbury asked. "Bit early for Elevenses, I suppose?"

"I believe so, yes."

"Excellent! I'll have a large Scotch, then: just the job to start the day off."

"I think I may as well join you, then." Quentin cracked a rare genuine lopsided smile of amusement as he prepared their drinks, then handed one of the glasses over to Marbury; the peer reflexively thanked him, waited a few seconds to let the ice cube start to slowly melt, then tossed back a hefty slug of Scotch, sighing and smacking his lips in pleasure as he lowered the glass again. Sitting in another wing armchair opposite Marbury, the Watcher soon followed suit, his eyes threatening to water as he did so.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Stirling Lines, Hereford, England**

**22nd Special Air Service Regimental Headquarters**

Half a dozen folding tables had been pushed together in the middle of the small storeroom, and a vast array of equipment and cases were laid out on top of them. A soldier – a quartermaster's orderly from the Royal Logistics Corps – clutching a clipboard greeted the little party, and began listing the equipment, pointing out each item in turn.

"Okay, this lot is two sets of everything for standard CT kit: black overalls, balaclavas, body armour, vindaloos – that's fireproof underwear," he added, noting Faith's puzzled expression, "ops waistcoats, gloves, assault boots, holsters, respirators, throat mics and pressels, beltkit and holdalls. If anything _doesn't_ fit, then just bring it back and we'll sort it, okay?"

Pulling out an envelope, he opened it to reveal two wads of banknotes bound together with elastic bands. He handed one bundle apiece to Faith and Xander. "There's four hundred pounds each: first chance you get down the town, buy yourselves some normal civvies; jackets, jeans, bland as you like," he explained. "They're for keeni meeni, observations, and walk-by on ops."

So saying, he turned his clipboard around and held out a biro. "Just sign for that?" he asked; Faith shrugged, then accepted the pen and signed **'Slayer Faith'** in the box indicated on the form.

Satisfied with even that rather odd signature, the orderly accepted his pen back as he walked around to where several sturdy equipment cases had been laid out. Releasing the catches, he flipped open the cases' lids one after the other in rapid succession.

"Weapons: Heckler and Koch MP5A3 with six mags; Sig Sauer P226 pistol, four mags; Puma combat knives," he listed off, as Faith picked up one of the empty MP5s and checked the action. "Serial numbers…"

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**The Council of Watchers' Headquarters, London**

"_So,"_ Marbury declared, giving Travers an openly calculating stare and a disarmingly lazy lopsided smile, "I understand the Council is none too happy about something, eh, Quentin?"

"_Elements_ of the Council are," Travers gently corrected.

"Mmm. I take it you mean Caulderhale and his little pack of cronies?"

Travers nodded.

"And what _exactly_ is it that they disapprove of?" Marbury pressed.

"A great many, _many_ things, John," Travers sighed wearily, then took another slug of his whiskey. _"Specifically_, however, they don't like the fact that there's a Slayer hanging around with the Hereford Hooligans again."

Marbury's smile widened. _"Ah._ I assume their collective blood pressure is elevated to a considerable degree, then?"

"You assume correctly," Travers agreed, permitting himself a small smirk of satisfied amusement.

"Excellent! And what is _your_ opinion of this state of affairs?"

Travers leaned forward in his seat, staring contemplatively into his glass. "Truthfully?" He looked up to meet Marbury's gaze again. "I'm not entirely sure.

"It's clear from the reports that Slayer Faith is a truly formidable Slayer in her own right, and she seems to have hit the ground running – destroying the world's oldest vampire, preventing an apocalypse, _and_ killing a pair of Tarakan assassins in as many minutes, all within two weeks or so of being Called?" Travers shook his head. "It's… It's absolutely astonishing… a truly incredible list of accomplishments.

"No Slayer has _ever_ killed more than one Tarakan in her lifetime before – even Slayer Buffy and Slayer Kendra only ever killed _one_ of them apiece… and they were two of the most remarkable Slayers that have lived in nearly five centuries. And no Slayer has _ever_ managed to defeat one of Wolfram & Hart's… _operatives,"_ Travers disgustedly spat the word as if it were poison, before calming down a little, "in all of our recorded history.

"As for that M'Kachen demon… good _God_, John!" Travers shook his head in open awe and amazement. "Only three Slayers have ever managed to kill one of _those_ monstrosities, and all three girls died of the most horrific injuries imaginable in the course of those battles – two of them were bitten in half at the waistline!

"And yet…"

"And yet… what?" Marbury gently pressed, sipping from his own glass.

"John… you know what I've been doing of late," Travers said quietly.

"Talking to the Coven… trying to engage in a dialogue with HMG… trying to rebuild the old Alliance, at a guess?"

Travers nodded. "Exactly. So, you know I'm not the least bit averse to the idea of returning to how things used to be between the early Sixties and the mid-Eighties. I have _no_ objections – none whatsoever – to the idea of Slayers regularly training and working with our military again to combat supernatural threats. What I'm _not_ comfortable with is the fact that she doesn't have a Watcher."

"Well, she hasn't exactly _refused_ to work with the Council," Marbury pointed out. "She told me she was willing to talk to you – that is, you _specifically."_

Travers' eyes widened in surprise. "You've met her? In person?"

"Yes, both Slayer Faith _and_ her Terminator bodyguard – I invited myself along for their flight over from Canada, and wound up enjoying a _very_ interesting chat with her while we were working our way through the mini-bar," Marbury said in a casual tone of voice.

"Oh, dear god… you've been corrupting her," Travers groaned.

"Other way 'round, actually," Marbury corrected, grinning widely by now.

Travers's mind boggled as he attempted to consider this notion in silence for several seconds, before he gave up on the task altogether in an effort to preserve his sanity. "Y-You said that Slayer Faith is willing to meet with me?" he finally asked, grasping for a much safer topic.

Marbury nodded. "Indeed she is – said if the Council was interested in her, she wanted to talk to whoever the 'head honcho' was, and no one else. She'll see you at Stirling Lines on the Twenty-Eighth, and said you should come alone. Mind you, Quentin, you'll have quite a bit of explaining to do."

Travers frowned, puzzled. "'Explaining'? Explaining _what_, exactly?"

"Well, she knows about your Hunter Force; and that while Slayer Buffy and her, ah, 'Scooby Gang' were battling three out of the four members of the Scourge of Europe in Sunnydale over a period of more than three months, the HF teams never put in an appearance. She also knows that Slayer Kendra only turned up in Sunnydale right at the very end of that time, only to be killed by Drusilla. Faith _is_ willing to hear you out, but if she doesn't get a satisfactory explanation, you can forget any chance of the Council ever having anything to do with her again."

Travers nodded. "In that case, I think I can satisfy her," he confidently said.

Marbury raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Oh?"

"Slayer Kendra spent nearly two months hunting the Illuminati from one side of the globe to the other and back again, and wiped out the whole bloody lot of them," Travers replied. "Considering how powerful those sorcerers were, how complete their mastery of the dark magics was, _that_ was no mean feat, let me tell you. Their chap in Rome – some johnny who'd become immortal with one of da Vinci's inventions – put up one _hell_ of a fight; in the end, she had to cut his head off with a chainsaw.

"In addition to the Illuminati campaign, in that particular time period Slayer Kendra tracked down, boarded and sank the _Flying Dutchman_; she spent a couple of weeks searching for the Hellmouth in the centre of the Bermuda Triangle, all the while racing to get there before the Cult of Aemos could find it and open it; she calmed down a rather bad-tempered sea monster – the, oh, the what'sitcalled, the one with all the teeth and tentacles and things – that was planning to eat the Japanese whaling fleet and pass it off as research; and she fought and destroyed a platoon from the French Foreign Legion, who'd been turned into vampires while they were stationed in Algeria… Oh, and by the way, that's just listing the _highlights_ of her career during the time that Angelus was on the warpath in Sunnydale."

Marbury slowly nodded as he finished his whiskey. "And the Hunter Force…?" he asked.

Travers snorted. "Between hostile demons, apocalyptic cults, dark mages, religious fundamentalists hell-bent on ending the world in the hopes of pleasing their assorted gods, a vampire duelling cult, and a team of mercenaries searching for the Fountain of Eternal Youth – we _still_ don't know who hired them, I might add – the Hunter Force teams have been overworked, undermanned, and outgunned for five years straight by now. The heavy casualties they've sustained haven't exactly helped matters either.

"The truth of the matter is, John, we simply didn't have any assets to spare for Sunnydale," Travers continued. "It's only since the resolution of that Acathla business that things have quietened down a bit around the world, enough for us to catch our breath a bit and try to rebuild and reorganise some of the Hunter Force teams.

"In any case, there are quite a few Watchers who would argue that a single Slayer should be more than capable of guarding a Hellmouth and dealing with a few vampires… even members of the Scourge of Europe." Travers shrugged again. "To an extent, I even agree with them."

Marbury shook his head. "A Council-raised Slayer such as Slayer Kendra _might_ have been up to such a job," he conceded. "But Slayer Buffy was _not_ raised by the Council. And – at least so far as our intelligence chaps can make out – she'd never been in _any_ kind of a fight before her Calling, not even so much as a bout of playground hair-pulling. Her first _ever_ venture into the realm of fisticuffs was also the first time she encountered a vampire.

"By contrast, Slayer Faith at least has the advantage of having been an accomplished scrapper in her own right before she was Called, and her prior experiences have served her very well since then. And as I understand it, Slayer Kendra killed her first vampire when she was barely eight years old, and was training in the use of assorted martial arts, mêlée weapons and firearms from almost as soon as she could walk."

"That lack of prior experience never stopped Slayer Buffy before," Travers argued. "She fought Nest – you know the one, that idiot bloodsucker that went around using the name of Doctor Who's arch-nemesis as an alias – and destroyed the Three, killed a Tarakan, survived battling William the Bloody… she even managed to destroy the damn _Judge_, and it was a clever bit of planning rigging up that bomb and luring him onto it the way she did."

"She _did_ have a bit of help from her friends and her Watcher with the bomb's construction and placement," Marbury pointed out.

"True, true," Travers admitted. "But still, the point _is_, the Scourge of Europe should have been no different from any other vampires – a bit cleverer and sneakier, perhaps, but nothing more…"

"Quentin… you're forgetting her feelings for Angelus's alter ego – his 'Doctor Jekyll' side, if you will," Marbury said gently.

"I'm _not_ forgetting that; I'm trying my best to suppress all memory of that ghastly and downright unnatural state of affairs," Travers groaned. "And quite frankly, John, I'm not convinced this whole 'souled vampire' business wasn't just another disgusting trick of Angelus's.

"He enjoyed mind games more than damn near anything else in the world. Tricking a Slayer into falling in _love_ with him, and to then torment her with that same love…" Travers paused, grimacing with distaste. "…From what I know of the wretched creature from my research, that's _exactly_ the sort of sadistic thing that would appeal to his sick sense of humour."

"And what if you're wrong?" Marbury asked, intently studying Travers.

Travers snorted in mild amusement. "John, I spent damned nearly twenty-five years in the field hunting, fighting and killing vampires, demons, mages, death cultists, and more horrors than I can count and which I'd honestly rather forget. For two of those years, I had the honour of being Watcher to Slayer Senfina.

"Trust me – I _know_ vampires, and that ridiculous story about Angelus seeking redemption is complete _twaddle._ I've been wrong about quite a few things in my life, John – well, let's face it, who _hasn't?_ – but I'm _not_ wrong, not where bloody _vampires_ are concerned.

"That said, I do pity Slayer Buffy for how she was manipulated and tormented by that monster," Travers continued, his tone turning remorseful. "A fully-trained Slayer like Slayer Kendra would never have fallen victim to his charms and wiles in a thousand years – but as you say, John, Slayer Buffy was _not_ prepared for the supernatural world prior to her Calling," he quickly conceded before Marbury could raise that particular point again.

"Slayer Buffy's training began too little and too late – as, regrettably, is always the case with stray Slayers. And considering that she – according to Rupert's reports – often reads Bills & Moon novels, it's not really surprising that the rubbish Angelus fed her about being a 'vampire seeking redemption' appealed to her romantic side.

"She would have been wide open for such a deception, worst luck… and she suffered terribly in consequence," Travers finished with a sigh, then gulped down the remainder of his drink. "She didn't deserve that. No Slayer does… no teenage girl does."

Marbury nodded solemnly. "I still think you might be wrong about Angelus's change of heart, Quentin; but on _that_ I most certainly agree with you."

Travers sighed. "You don't know vampires like I do, John, but – given how bull-headed you've proven to be in the past – I suppose we'll have to agree to disagree, there," he said, cracking a small smile.

"I think I can live with that," Marbury said congenially.

Travers nodded, then held up his empty glass. "Another?" he offered.

Marbury permitted himself a wry smile. "Oh, why not? The morning's still young, and we're still sober."

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Stirling Lines, Hereford, England**

**22nd Special Air Service Regimental Headquarters**

Faith tied her hair up into a rough ponytail, checked that her radio earpiece was firmly lodged in place, then pulled on her balaclava. Unrolling it over her head and face, she pulled it further on down over her neck and covering her throat and throat mic, tucking the end beneath the collar of her overalls. That done, she caught a glimpse of herself reflected in the empty locker room's mirror, and grinned at the sight she saw.

The Slayer looked sinister and alien in her jet-black assault gear. She was completely covered in black from head to toe, save for small holes in her balaclava for her eyes and lips.

Her pistol was holstered on her right hip, while her sheathed combat knife was inverted on her left chest plate for a speedy cross-draw, next to where she'd clipped her radio's pressel. Her ops waistcoat's pouches bulged with magazines, flashbangs and CS gas canisters. Her MP5 was suspended across her chest on an assault sling within easy reach, and a torch was fitted under its barrel.

Pulling her respirator from its pouch on her belt, Faith tugged it down over her face and snugged its straps securely and comfortably into place. A hood of dark flame-retardant material was attached to the mask; pulling it down, Faith fastened the zip to secure it to the collar of her overalls, then took hold of her MP5.

Looking back at the mirror, Faith's grin widened even further under her balaclava and respirator. Her face was hidden beneath the bulbous-eyed insectoid respirator and dark hood; the respirator's tinted lenses completed her transformation from a superpowered teenage girl into an anonymous and inhuman monstrous creature.

Satisfied, Faith unzipped her respirator, tugged it off, and clipped it to her ops waistcoat. She then rolled up her balaclava to leave her face exposed, so it covered her hair and the top of her head like a watch cap; then turned, opened the locker room door, and stepped outside.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**The Council of Watchers' Headquarters, London**

"There's something else you need to explain to Slayer Faith, Quentin," Marbury announced, as Travers retook his seat opposite him.

"Oh? What's that?" Travers asked.

"The Cruciamentum."

Travers stared at Marbury, suppressing the urge to utter a curse in Afrikaans that had come to mind. "I take it we have a certain bunch of squaddies to thank for that," Travers sighed in exasperation.

"If they hadn't told Faith about it first, _I_ would have," Marbury said firmly.

Travers shook his head. "Why doesn't that surprise me…?"

"Quentin, Faith knows that in the old days, whenever the chaps from Hereford and Poole asked what the point of the Cruciamentum was, the party-line answer they always got boiled down to 'don't worry your little squaddie heads about it' – which, as you can imagine, went down like the _Titanic_ with them," Marbury explained. "That particular cat's well and truly out of the bag, now; Slayer Faith wants an explanation for the practice, the _real_ reason for it, and she informed me that it's a deal-breaker. Besides, it's not all _that_ unreasonable a request."

"A Slayer is not just physical prowess," Travers replied automatically. "She must have cunning, imagination, a confidence derived from self-reliance. A Slayer who passes her Cruciamentum grows all the stronger for the experience, and much more confident in her natural wits and intellect."

Marbury shook his head. "Quentin, Slayer Faith quickly concluded there was merit to the idea of training with her powers removed or otherwise negated, in case an enemy ever stripped her of her powers. What she _actually_ wants an explanation for is why Slayers are surreptitiously drugged by their Watchers for the Cruciamentum; why the Council practices such duplicity."

"_Ah."_

"Quite," Marbury agreed with a wry grin, before sipping his Scotch.

Travers took a hefty slug of his own drink, and felt it burn its way down his throat. "I take it you think she's not going to like the only answer we have to give?"

Marbury barked a short, sharp laugh. "Quentin… having met the young lady, I know for a _fact_ that she's going to be none too impressed when you admit you've absolutely no idea how or why that part of the test was ever dreamed up in the first place!"

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Stirling Lines, Hereford, England**

**22nd Special Air Service Regimental Headquarters**

"So, what's this for?" Faith asked, peering around the gloomy interior of the ancient prefabricated Nissen Hut. Identically dressed and armed, Xander followed at a fixed distance behind her and to her right.

Entering behind them and groping his way along the wall near the door, Newton found a switch and flipped it: a couple of old lightbulbs flickered arthritically into life in response. _"This_ is the regimental chapel," he replied.

Raising a sceptical eyebrow, Faith took a good look at her surroundings. The hut was filled with rickety-looking old chairs that were scattered higgledy-piggledy around the floor. A small lectern was positioned at the far end. A tea urn and a coffee machine occupied a table in one corner: both appeared to be very well-used, and a vast array of mismatched mugs sat next to them. All of the chairs faced the table, not the lectern.

"Boy, you guys sure ain't big on church-goin'," Faith quipped as she plonked herself down into an empty seat and swung her booted feet up into another.

An explosion sounded nearby, shaking the hut and dislodging a faint miasma of dust from the lightbulbs and lectern; the chairs rattled noisily in response to the vibration. Fully automatic gunfire began crackling a split-second later, and lasted for a good fifteen or sixteen seconds without pause.

"Soooo… why put a _chapel_ next to the Killing House?" Faith asked, all innocence, as the gunfire died away. "Kind of a weird combination."

Newton cracked a wry grin as he snagged a seat of his own. "Well, we were short of space and didn't have room for it anywhere else."

"But if you ain't gonna use it, why've you got one in the first place?"

"That'd be 'cause of some _wonderful_ 'politically correct' law or other that the Islington Lefties brought in yonks ago," said Newton, sarcasm and contempt plainly evident in his tone of voice. "So, we normally use it for brew-ups when we're taking a break from the Killing House, or for briefings, after-actions… useful stuff like that."

Faith snorted with open amusement as the gunfire started up again. "Ever get any complaints?"

"Well, according to the history books, the first padre ever assigned to the Regiment stormed out of the camp, screaming something about how we needed a missionary to sort us all out before we burned in the fires of hell," Newton said matter-of-factly. "There've been a few more padres over the years that just gave up and quit. But, aside from them, the Regiment's nearly always been free of the really hardcore members of the God Squad, so we've had next to no aggro about it."

"Huh. Cool." Faith nodded, then jerked her thumb at the wall nearest to the Killing House complex. "There any chance someone might blast through that by mistake?"

Newton shrugged. "It's never happened before… but, hey, there's a first time for everything, I s'pose."

"'Kay. What're we doing here, then?"

"Well, I thought I'd start by answering any general questions you two might have – about the Regiment, our military, the country, or whatever – then I'd run you through the training package I've put together with D Squadron's headshed, sort any questions you've got about that, and then we'll nip over to the Killing House and get started," Newton explained. "Sound good?"

"Five by five with me," Faith agreed. "Okay… well, I'm kinda curious what the whole 'Red Team' thing was all about earlier? The guys back in the 'Dale dug up a book about you guys, an' that said somethin' 'bout each of your, uh, 'squadrons' being organised into four squads or somethin'?"

Newton nodded in understanding. "I see where you're coming from, there… Okay, we've got four 'sabre squadrons', and each of those usually breaks down into a small headquarters group and four 'troops'. On paper, every troop is _supposed_ to have a captain and fifteen rankers in it, _buuut…"_ He shrugged.

"…That's not always doable, right?" Faith guessed.

"Yeah – every so often, bods have to go off on courses, or do a stint attached to Det, go on foreign exchange programs, or they get hospitalised or killed, and we have a pretty low annual intake of new recruits, so we're always a bit short-handed," said Newton. "Plus, there's never enough bloody officers to go 'round, so there's always _some_ troops being led by sergeants or staffies."

"'Staffies'?"

"It's short for 'staff sergeant'."

"What's the difference?"

"For one thing, a staffy's got more clout; for another, they've got more experience. In the Regiment, you can't get your third stripe 'til you've been 'in' for at least eight years; to make staffy, you've got to've been 'in' for at least ten years."

Faith let out a low whistle. "An' you guys don't even give anyone a shot at joining you guys 'less they got, what? Four years' experience in another unit, or somethin'?"

"Actually, the regs say you only need two years minimum under your belt, but most bods come in with a lot more than that behind them. If you get through Selection, you lose any rank you've got, you've got to start all over again."

"So how 'bout you, Newton?" Faith asked. "How long'd you been a… what's that word you guys use?"

"'Squaddie'."

"That's it – how long'd you been a squaddie 'fore you joined this outfit? An' what was your old team?"

"Oh, I'd been in the Green Howards for close on five and a half years; did a couple tours over the water while I was with them, and another out in the Belize garrison."

"Soooo… what are the Howards? Infantry, tankies, artillery…?"

"They're an infantry regiment."

"Uh-huh. An' you've been with _these_ guys for… how long?"

"Getting on for five years, now: I finally got my second stripe back last September."

"So, the average staffy… they'll have been soldiers for, what – fifteen, sixteen years?"

"Yeah, easy. Oh, and that two years spec I mentioned?" Newton shook his head. "That doesn't count the time you spend in training. If you're a complete mong and you needed two whole fuckin' years just to get through Basic and become a rifleman, you'll get told to fuck off if you try and sign up for Selection with just that behind you."

Faith smirked at that, amused. _"Gotcha._ So, each a' your troops has got its own little party trick, yeah?"

"That's it. Each sabre squadron's got the same combination of four troops – Boat, Air, Mobility and Mountain – each with its own 'troop skill'. Now, we _all_ get trained up in 'the basics' – we can all swim; we all know the basic parachuting techniques used by Para Reg; we all know how to drive and change a wheel; and we can all climb a cliff."

"Uh-huh. But trainin' up in a troop skill… that takes you to another level, right?"

"Right. Now, here's the thing: the squadrons rotate through different jobs every six months or so – it keeps things fresh and stops us getting bored and stale and backsliding, y'know? And the biggest 'permanent' job is the CT team – Counter-Terrorism. That's what D Squadron's doing right now.

"When a squadron rotates into this job, it reshuffles into the CT structure – two teams, Red and Blue. The Red and Blue teams take it in turns at the Duty Troop and Pagoda Team roles, swapping over once a week or so. The Duty Troop's held ready to crash out on something like five minutes' notice; the Pagoda Team needs a couple of hours to get going if the balloon goes up, 'cause the bods on that are all training in the Killing House or down the town.

Faith slowly nodded. _"Ah…_ so do two troops get, like, mashed together to make up each team?"

Newton shook his head. "Not these days, nope – we _used_ to do it that way, back in the Seventies, but not anymore."

"Really?" Faith looked bemused. "Why not?"

"'Cause nowadays the squadron providing the CT team also has to form Ulster and F Troops: those troops are used to keep an eye on the local Hellmouths," Newton explained. "When a squadron starts a tour as the CT team, each troop chips in a bod or two for F Troop, 'cause the Shakyboats send a few of their blokes along as well to make up the numbers there. After that's sorted, three of the troops get mixed and muddled up to form Red and Blue Teams, while the fourth troop goes over the water.

"The two CT teams are supposed to be led by captains: however, D Squadron's a bit short of Ruperts just now, so only Blue Team's got one. Nate's the senior staffy in the squadron, so he's running Red Team."

"So what happens after a squadron's tour in the CT team's up – it just goes back to the usual 'four-troop' structure?" Faith asked.

Newton nodded again. "Yeah, that's it."

"Gotcha… now, earlier, you called this—" Faith patted her ops waistcoat for emphasis, "—'Embassy Black Tie' – what's that mean?"

"It's a nickname – refers to the Iranian Embassy hostage situation, back in 1980."

Faith looked taken aback at that. "I thought the Iranian Embassy thing involved _American_ special forces? They never even got within a hundred miles of the fuckin' embassy, let alone rescued any a' the hostages the Iranians were holding?"

"Eh?" Newton did a speedy double-take at that. The Slayer and the SAS corporal stared at each other, equally bewildered, until at last Newton slowly nodded: _"Ohhhh_, right, okay, I think we might be talking at cross-purposes here… You're talking about when the _American_ embassy in _Tehran_ was overrun by revolutionaries, right? And all the staff were taken hostage?"

"Yeah, that's it."

"Right – well, I was referring to when the _Iranian_ embassy in _London_ was occupied by a gang of terrorists."

"Ahhhhh… _That_ makes more sense now," Faith said with a grin.

"Yeah, well, the wankers took a bunch of hostages, then after a week they started to lose their nerve and topped one," Newton elaborated. "When that happened, B Squadron got the green light to go in and sort the fuckers out, wound up slotting close on the whole lot. The bods were all blacked-up like this for the job: when it was done, some Muppet joked how they'd dressed for the occasion in 'embassy black tie'. The name kind of stuck."

Faith grinned at that. "Okay… hey, what's with all the 'bod' stuff, what's that about?"

"'Bod'? Oh, that… We started using it after we started recruiting women – it's gender-neutral so no one gets honked off, but _much_ more importantly, it's quicker to say than 'bloke', which is what we used to use."

"Right, right, makes sense…" Faith nodded in understanding. "Talkin' a' which, how come you've got girls onna books? All the stuff that Warr, A-Man an' the Torch dug up fer me on you guys said you were a boys-only club."

"Yeah, well, what can I say – we like to keep our advantages quiet," Newton said with a small smirk. "We don't let on that not all of our bods are human, either, or that some of the girls are ex-Potentials; we don't have a lot of either, so it's not all that hard to hide from any foreigners over here on exchange programs."

"Potentials?" Faith looked intrigued. "Potential _what_, exactly?"

Newton grinned widely. "Potential Slayers."

Faith's eyebrows rose, almost vanishing beneath her balaclava-turned-watch cap. "No shit?"

"No shit."

Faith let out a low and long whistle. "Sooooo… how'd they become _ex_-Potentials?"

"So far as we understand it, when a Potential Slayer hits her eighteenth birthday, if she hasn't already been Called as a Slayer, she's never going to be – no clue why," said Newton. "A Potential or ex-Potential tends to be pretty bloody good in her own right – they're a _bit_ stronger and faster and tougher than the average human, got better senses and the like; physically, they're right at the top end of the human race.

"Anyhow, some ex-Potentials get hired by the Watchers – to train new Potentials, for the Hunter Force teams, and a few even end up becoming Watchers. Some just go off and forget the supernatural world exists, become athletes or lawyers or the like. Some become crooks – mob enforcers, assassins, or whatever. And _some_ of them—"

"—Join you guys," Faith cut him off, grinning.

"That's it – they figure that if they can't be Slayers, joining the Regiment is the next best thing," Newton agreed, grinning back.

Faith nodded again. "Right, well, I guess I can kinda see where they're comin' from… Say, how do you guys, uh… refer to yourselves?"

Newton looked at her, puzzled. "Eh?"

"We-ellll… some a' the research the guys did turned up that a lot of American special ops units refer to their guys as 'operators' now-days… do you guys do the same thing?"

Newton snorted, plainly amused. "Shite, _no_, no fuckin' way," he laughed. "In the Regiment, we're all 'soldiers', or 'squaddies' if you want to get informal. Even blokes who were in the rock apes or the bootnecks before they went on Selection? As long as they're in the Regiment, they're soldiers. Similar deal with the Shakyboats – they're 'Marines' or 'bootnecks', period. 'Operator' is a _really_ bone job description."

"Er… 'rock apes'?" Faith asked.

"Sorry – nickname for the RAF Regiment," Newton explained.

Faith stared at him. _"Huh?"_

"Honestly, I have _no_ fuckin' clue how that one got dreamt up," Newton confessed, grinning. "The 'Rock' part is something to do with Gibraltar, but the 'apes' bit…?" He shrugged.

"Oh-_kaaaaay_… hey, how come you landed this gig, anyway? Trainin' me an' Tee, that is?"

"A policy of 'first come, first served' – I volunteered before anyone else could beat me to it," said Newton. _"Sooooo_… next question?"

Faith shook her head. "Eh, that's all I got fer now," she said. "So, what're we gonna do fer training?"

"I figured there's no point trying to work on stamina or strength or whatever 'cause I don't think we _could_ do anything to help either of you out there," said Newton. "As we've only got three weeks, I thought we'd focus on CT drills. They're mainly geared toward fighting in built-up areas, which should be the most use to you as you said you're planning to be based in Sunnydale in the long-term."

Faith nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah, I guess training to fight in jungles an' mountains an' shit like that might be cool an' all, but wouldn't be much use in Sunny-Dee."

"Hey, we can always do that another time if you want," Newton said with a shrug. "To start off with, it'll just be the three of us, while you two get used to the drills and we work out how to modify them to suit you best – you don't want to limit yourselves to our speed and strength levels, y'know?

"Once we've got that sorted and you're happy with what we're doing, we'll start training with whoever's on the Pagoda Team for the week, and take things a bit more large-scale. That'll include fast-roping, Snatch deployment and the like."

The hut shook as a fresh explosion sounded close by: swinging her booted feet down to the floor, Faith rose from her chair, and bounced a couple of times on the balls of her feet while Newton stood up again. "Awright," the Slayer said with a grin. "Let's get this show on the road!"

**[—]**

Located at the far end of the Lines for safety's sake, the Killing House complex comprised a ten-storey block of flats; a 'street' of a dozen two-storey houses, half of them semi-detached and the rest terraces; and another blandly anonymous five-storey building that could play the role of a hotel, an embassy, or an office block, depending on the desired scenario. A short stretch of nearby track was home to a couple of railway carriages.

All of the buildings and the rolling stock were old and somewhat worse for wear, although their doors and windows were incongruously new-looking. At one end of the 'street' of houses, a road sign displayed the legend **'GUNSHOT LANE'**; the sign sported several bullet holes. A few tatty-looking cars and vans were randomly scattered along the street, or parked in driveways.

As the little group headed over from the Nissen hut, Faith's ears pricked up at the distant purr of rotors chopping the air and the growl of helicopters' engines. A second later, a pair of black-painted Agusta 109s burst into view from above the treeline to the east, tearing hell-for-leather toward the 'embassy'.

Faith stopped dead in her tracks to watch as the Agustas' side doors slid open; the aircraft slowed rapidly while a dark nylon rope dropped out of each side door. Black-clad bodies followed a split-second later, already starting to slide down the ropes before the helis had even reached the target building, anonymous and alien-looking behind their respirators.

Still the Agustas continued to kill their speed. The first wave of SAS soldiers were over halfway down the ropes by now, a second wave starting their descent immediately above them; no sooner had the second wave cleared the doors than a third wave began sliding down the ropes immediately above _them_.

Both aircraft came to a dead stop above the roof of their target building barely a second or two before the first four soldiers hit the roof boots-first and stepped smartly out of the way of the second wave, who were just as closely followed by the third. Once the ropes were cleared, the Agustas gunned their engines and pulled away, accelerating steadily.

A roar of engines preceded the arrival of two armoured Snatch Land Rovers, which hurtled around the corner of Gunshot Lane and raced towards the target building. Each Land Rover was fitted with an erected ladder on its roof, which was occupied by a pair of SAS soldiers who clung on gamely to the ladder.

Openly intrigued, Faith looked on, Xander looming implacably over her shoulder and Newton smirking off a little way to her left.

The first wave of SAS soldiers on the roof unslung spare ropes coiled around their bodies and wedged their feet against the edge of the rooftop. Anchoring the spare ropes with their bodies, they let the ends dangle over the side of the building.

A second later, each rope was occupied by two members of the second or third waves of soldiers, who abseiled down the side of the building to four balconies: two on the third floor, and two more on the fourth. Once the ropes had been safely cleared, the body belay soldiers cast the ropes off and vanished from Faith's view as they jogged away from the edge of the roof.

The Land Rovers screeched to a halt right in front of the building, and the SAS soldiers clinging to the roofs scrambled up the ladders to place shaped charges against a pair of first floor windows. Meanwhile, the cab doors of the Land Rovers were flung open: each vehicle disgorged another pair of soldiers, who ran toward the nearest side door and a set of French windows on the ground level.

Two seconds later, there was a thunderous rumbling sound as shaped charges detonated, blasting in windows on the first, third and fourth floors, the door and French windows on the ground floor, and a geyser of debris rising from the top of the building announced that at least one hole had been blasted in the roof. The sixteen still-visible SAS soldiers vanished into the building in double-quick time, accompanied by the muted sounds of gunfire and detonating flashbangs.

"Tee… how long did that take?" Faith asked. "From when we first saw those choppers, to when those guys went inside?"

Xander briefly considered the inquiry. "My internal chronometer indicates that a total of six-point-seven-four seconds elapsed in the specified time period," he said, raising his voice above the sound of rattling gunfire.

"Oi, don't look so impressed," Newton jokingly warned the Slayer.

"Why not?" Faith asked, turning to him.

"'Cause I've seen you two in action – once you've got the hang of that drill, you'll be even faster at it. Come on – time for your first lesson."

**[—]**

Leading the way into one of the semi-detached houses, Newton indicated where three pieces of equipment were laid out on the kitchen table.

"Alright: let me run you through some of our MOE kit – that's Method of Entry," Newton explained off Faith's puzzled expression. "The Search Warrant, the Barclaycard, and the Harvey Wallbanger," he listed off, pointing at each item in turn.

Faith dubiously picked up the twenty-pound sledgehammer and hefted it to get a feel for its weight and balance. _"This_ is your idea of a search warrant?" she asked, a little incredulous and amused.

"Do you really think that anyone is going to try to tell us to get lost when _that_ fucker comes through the front door?" Newton replied, grinning.

Faith chuckled as she put the Search Warrant back on the table. "Heh… I guess not. So, why name a shotgun after a credit card?"

The 'Barclaycard' that Newton had indicated was a sawn-off pump-action shotgun, which had a short bungee cord tied to its pistol grip.

"There was this advertising campaign back in the late Seventies – it had the slogan 'A Barclaycard gets you anywhere'," Newton explained, grinning. "The old lags liked it and adopted it.

"We use the Barclaycards to fire _these_ – Hatton rounds," So saying, Newton pulled a shotgun shell from one of his waistcoat's pouches, and handed it to Faith, "They're basically great big lumps of lead, and their job's to take out hinges in locked doors."

"_Ah,_ so you tag-team with a guy with a Search Warrant, then?" Faith checked, handing back the shell.

"Yeah, that's right – the Search Warrant smashes out the lock while the Barclaycard does the hinges in," Newton agreed. "Of course, you can always blast your way through with a demo charge instead, but that runs the risk of doing a number on any civvies on the other side, yeah? However, if you know for _sure_ that there's no civvies in the way, then it's better to just blast your way in."

"Cool," Faith said approvingly. "And the Harvey Wallbanger?"

The Harvey Wallbanger was a long metal pole with a square slab of armour plating on one end and an ominous-looking switch on the other.

"The Harvey's a shaped charge," Newton said, picking up the pole. "You place the charge against, say, a door or a window, like _this—"_ so saying, he walked across the little kitchen and rested the slab against the glass of the nearest window, "—and then you detonate." He hit the switch with his thumb: something in the Harvey Wallbanger's slab let out a loud bleeping sound, but absolutely nothing else happened.

"This one's rigged with a dummy charge just now," Newton explained as he put the Harvey Wallbanger back on the table. "We can swap that out for the real thing later on.

"Now, what do you say we give this a go, eh?"

**[—]**

"_That_ is your target – Number Five, Gunshot Lane," Newton said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at the terraced house behind him. The three of them stood in the middle of the road of the little street.

"Inside are a number of x-rays – that means 'bad guys', 'terrorists', or 'bastard fuckwits', depending on your preferences," Newton added as an aside, eliciting a brief and low chuckle from Faith. "They have hostages with them.

"Your job's to get in there, sort the fuckers out, and recover the gimps – un-perforated, for preference. The house is wired up with cameras – _don't_ shoot those, for fuck's sake – so you'll have an instant-replay to watch when you're done: we can destroy the tapes later if you want. Now, do either of you have any questions?"

"How many x-rays are we dealing with?" Faith asked.

"No idea. Next?"

"How many hostages have the bad guys got?"

"Don't know, but an old couple live there, so figure at least two – could be more."

"Is there a basement, or a bomb shelter, or any other kinda underground rooms?"

"Nope."

"How 'bout an attic?"

"Yup, there's a loft."

"Awright: what's our game plan? Who goes upstairs, who does downstairs, shit like that?"

"Whatever you two decide," Newton said with a grin.

Faith nodded thoughtfully. "Okay, then…"

**[—]**

A few minutes later, Faith stood before Number Five's front door, the Search Warrant held firmly in her gloved hands. Xander stood to her left, the Barclaycard at the ready. Newton was directly behind Faith, his MP5 in his hands. All three of them had donned their balaclavas and respirators.

"Stand by…" Newton counted off over the net, "Stand by… _Go!"_

With one smooth swing, Faith smashed the Search Warrant through the front door, tearing out the lock, bolt and chain. At the same instant, the Barclaycard roared as it blew out the top hinge; Xander jerked the stubby shotgun's barrel down as he pumped the action and fired again. The bottom hinge blew out even as Faith slung the Search Warrant and snatched her MP5 into her hands. She flicked on the torch while planting a snap-kick squarely into the middle of the door.

Xander released the Barclaycard, letting it dangle from its bungee cord as he seized his own MP5. As the Terminator ignited the torch under his weapon's barrel, the door collapsed inwards with a loud crash.

Faith shot through the front door like a bullet from a gun; to her right was a staircase, to her left was a small living room. The interior of the small house was dimly-lit, and her torch's beam shone brightly in the gloom.

Faith's first bound through the door took her onto the bottom stair; at that moment, the light from her torch landed on a figure at the top of the staircase – a figure wearing jeans, an old West German army jacket, and clutching an AK-47 in its gloved hands.

Just starting to break into a sprint up the stairs, the Slayer dropped her torch's beam on the head of the 'terrorist' and fired from the hip, a speedy double-tap that blew the 'head' apart and sent watermelon pith and seeds and skin flying everywhere.

Xander was hot on Faith's heels through the door, and charged into the living room. Newton was a split-second behind the Terminator, and the SAS corporal rushed up the stairs after Faith, slower than the Slayer but gamely running as fast as he could even as Faith bounded up the stairs three at a time, covering the distance in under two seconds flat.

Xander searched the living room in swift and economical movements, firing as he spotted a 'terrorist' dummy clutching an old Colt AR-18 carbine. Ignoring a second dummy, this one dressed in a suit, he charged on through into the kitchen.

**[—]**

At the top of the staircase, her MP5 panning steadily back and forth, Faith waited on the small landing for a second as Newton caught up with her. As Newton arrived, Faith took up a position on the left of the first door at the top of the staircase; Newton mirrored her on the right, letting his own MP5 dangle on its sling as he pulled a flashbang from one of his ops waistcoat's many pouches.

As Newton removed the pin, Faith kicked the door open. Newton promptly lobbed the stun grenade inside, and a second later there was a deafening _crack!_ and a flicker of bright light around the door.

Faith burst inside the instant the light had died away, and found herself in a cramped little bathroom. Another 'terrorist' dummy was inside, sitting on the toilet with its trousers down, an open red-top tabloid newspaper in its hands, and a sawn-off shotgun propped up within easy reach.

Firing from the hip, Faith planted a double-tap in the middle of its head, then fired another into its chest for good measure, drilling through the newspaper in the process. "Clear!" she snapped, turning and rushing outside, falling into step behind Newton.

**[—]**

The door separating the living room and the kitchen was a cheap and flimsy affair, so Xander concluded that it would be more expedient to simply charge straight through it instead of opening it. The thin plywood all but disintegrated under the force of the heavy Terminator's impact, and he burst through into the kitchen beyond, automatically registering valid targets and discarding the 'hostages' milliseconds before he opened fire.

_Tap-tap_ – a 'terrorist' hiding behind an upturned table was promptly decapitated.

_Tap-tap_ – a 'hostage' toppled to the floor, half of the dummy's left ear blown away, as a second 'terrorist' hiding behind it lost its watermelon head.

Xander scanned the kitchen thoroughly, his head smoothly rotating this way and that; his search yielded no new targets. Raising his MP5's barrel to point at the ceiling, he turned on his heel and marched to the foot of the stairs, where he settled down to wait.

**[—]**

Faith pulled a flashbang from her waistcoat and yanked out the pin just as Newton kicked in the second – and only other – door. She hurled the grenade inside, discarded the pin as the flashbang detonated, and seized her MP5 while Newton charged inside.

Bursting inside right on Newton's heels, Faith found he'd stepped to the left to get out of her way. They were in the master bedroom – the only bedroom in the house, in fact. Three 'terrorist' dummies and a hostage were inside.

Newton fired a double-tap that decapitated the 'terrorist' on the far left; Faith dropped her torch's beam on the head of the 'terrorist' on the far right and fired, then brought her MP5 around to the central 'terrorist'. Her double-tap arrived at about the same instant as Newton's.

Her Slaydar tingling, Faith dropped her torch's beam onto the hostage: the dummy wore a long curly wig and a summer dress…

And held a MAC-10 in its hands.

Faith promptly pulled her MP5's trigger twice. The wig was torn clean in two as the watermelon beneath it exploded.

Newton was already hustling outside, slinging his MP5 as he did so; Faith followed. Noticing that he was pointing up, she looked at the ceiling, and saw the hatch to the loft.

Looking back down at Newton again, Faith saw him pull another flashbang from his waistcoat. Remembering the brief, she let her MP5 dangle on its sling again and grabbed the Search Warrant: carefully hefting the sledgehammer, Faith swung her arm back, then forward and up and let fly.

The Search Warrant noisily smashed straight through the loft hatch like a rocket, leaving a large hole behind it before sailing onwards through the roof. A split-second later, Newton's flashbang followed the flying sledgehammer up into the loft and clattered to the bare floorboards.

Newton knelt down before Faith, cupping his hands to form a stirrup even as the flashbang detonated: grasping her MP5 again, Faith planted her left foot into the 'stirrup' and Newton straightened up, propelling Faith into the air.

Faith's head, shoulders and MP5 burst through the gaping hole in the loft hatch: the Slayer hung unsupported in empty space for the barest fraction of a second. In that brief time, she spotted one last 'terrorist' dummy, aimed, and fired a quick double-tap that neatly decapitated it… And then gravity took hold of her again, just as she shouted "CLEAR!"

Faith's booted feet and a pair of spent shell casings hit the floor at the same time; the former with a heavy thud, the latter tinkling gently onto the bare floorboards.

And with that, it was all over.

**[—]**

Faith sat on the kerb outside Number Five, her legs stretched out before her and her booted feet comfortably crossed at the ankles. Her respirator was once again clipped to her ops waistcoat, and her balaclava rolled up into an impromptu watch cap. Xander stood at her shoulder, a silent sentinel and a reassuringly familiar presence.

Faith swigged deeply from a bottle of cold water, then mopped a sheen of sweat from her forehead as she felt her heartbeat slowing to its usual relaxed rhythm. Behind the Slayer and the Terminator, half a dozen or so orderlies from the RLC were busily removing the shattered remains of the little house's doors and the shredded target dummies; a couple more were up on the roof, patching over the hole.

"Alright?" Newton said conversationally as he plonked himself down on the kerb beside the Slayer, holding out the Search Warrant's handle. "You might want this back, by the way."

"Hey, Newton," Faith greeted him, then accepted the proffered sledgehammer, easily slinging it across her back one-handed despite its weight. "Where'd it turn up?"

"Dropped straight through the roof of Sniper Heights," Newton explained, grinning as he jerked a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the Killing House's block of flats. "It nearly panned Adi's fuckin' head in while he was putting in an attack."

"He okay?" Faith asked, concerned and a little wary.

Newton shook his head dismissively. "Don't worry, he's fine. When I left, Deano and some of the others were still ripping the piss out of him for getting startled and tossing his flashbang through the door."

Faith visibly relaxed, though she looked – and felt – puzzled. "Don't quite see what's funny 'bout that. Ain't that what you're _s'posed_ to do?"

"Yeah, it is: but what's got them all honking is that Adi was so shocked by the Search Warrant dropping in on him, he forgot to take the pin out first," Newton explained with a wicked smirk.

Faith chuckled at that. "So, how'd we do?"

"Well, according to the analysis team, our attack on Number Five took us a grand total of fourteen…"

"Uh-huh, keep goin'…" Faith encouraged, grinning a little at Newton's infectious amused expression.

"…point…"

"Come _onnnnnn…"_ Faith wheedled.

"…eight-seven seconds," Newton finished.

Faith's eyes widened. "Holy shit," she said faintly. "That's… that's inside a' the usual time limit, right?"

"Yes it is," Newton replied, openly beaming by now. "Knocking over a little two-up-two-down like that? That was pretty fucking awesome, nailing the time limit on your first run ever.

"Now, come on – the Loggies've rigged up Number Six for us," Newton continued, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. "We'll have a go at a rear assault this time; you're having a go with the Harvey Wallbanger on the window."

Faith nodded in agreement as she set aside her water bottle. "Bustin' in Number Six's back hole – sounds like fun."

**[—]**

"Stand by… Stand by… _Go!"_ Newton directed.

Firmly grasping the long pole, Faith slammed the explosive slab against Number Six's kitchen window and hit the detonator switch. The shaped charge detonated, sending a shower of shards of glass and splinters of wood spraying across the room's interior.

Withdrawing the spent Harvey Wallbanger, Faith cast it aside out of the way across the little back garden even as Newton nimbly vaulted through the gaping window frame; grabbing her MP5, Faith leapt through after him even as Newton fired off a couple of quick double-taps. A split-second later, Xander simply walked through the wall beneath the gaping hole, scattering bricks and bits of window frame as he went.

Faith grinned beneath her respirator.

No matter what happened, she just _knew_ that these three weeks would be memorable.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**A/N:** Right, here we go – the start of a new episode! :)

Chapter Fourteen is already in the works and will be up soon as I can finish it, and will take us away from Blighty to focus on the gang back in Sunnydale.

Many thanks to everyone on TtH and FFN who's reviewed: I treasure each and every one of them. Please keep them coming…

I'll be back,

El ;)


	14. Chapter 14

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**A/N:** Here we are at last – I'm so sorry about the delay, but between various crises arising in real life, and my working on chapters for future episodes in the series when inspiration of the 'grab it now or miss it forever' variety struck me, I'm afraid that it couldn't be avoided.

A great many thanks go to Marcus S. Lazarus for his excellent and stoically patient work doing some beta-reading for parts of the series, and providing invaluable aid to me in planning various future plot twists in the 'No Fate' series, keeping me on a more-or-less sane route. My hat is well and truly off to you, sir.

Further thanks go to Cloudleonsgirl and DMW for the magnificent fanart photo-manips they've created for the 'No Fate' series over on Twisting the Hellmouth.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**No Fate: The Collected Data Files**

**Chapter Fourteen – Always a Little Further Part Two**

**Saturday 14th June 1997**

**17B Gallin Avenue, Sunnydale, CA**

Sitting in an armchair within Giles' living room, Jonathan's hands trembled as they clutched the steaming cup of tea. Every so often he began to try to lift the cup from the coffee table to his lips; every time, his hands began to tremble even more, until he had to set the cup down again before he risked spilling its contents. Finally, he set the cup down and released it, letting his elbows rest on his knees and leaving his hands to tremble uselessly in midair.

Sitting down opposite him, Giles offered Jonathan an encouraging smile. Reaching across the table, Giles gave the young man a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, then opened the book that lay in his lap, quickly thumbing through until he found the page he'd bookmarked.

"Now, Jonathan," Giles said in a quiet and soothing tone of voice, turning the book around and holding it out, "is _this_ the demon you encountered on your way to the library?"

Wringing his hands, Jonathan looked at the book, ran his eyes over the intricate ink sketch, and nodded quickly, "Y-yeah, th-that's the one. Wh-what _is_ it?"

"A Frezzon demon," said Giles. "They're very rare – in fact, they're rumoured to be on the verge of extinction. Very odd breed, Frezzons – highly aggressive and yet, comparatively speaking, very fragile; almost ridiculously so, one might say." Giles chuckled gently, his gaze unfocusing a little. "Why, back in the 1860s, Professor Ramkin – one of the Council's greatest ever demonologists – described them as 'a breed of total whittles'. They can still do an enormous amount of damage, though…"

Giles paused, cleared his throat and shook his head. "I'm sorry, Jonathan… I fear I allowed myself to wander off-topic somewhat. Now, this Frezzon demon – it was attacking Ms Kendall, you said?"

"Y-yeah, a-and it, um, k-kinda… well, _exploded_ when I shot it – I-I had my CPC with me, you see…"

Giles looked remorsefully bemused. "CPC…? I'm so sorry, but could you remind me what that stands for again?"

"Collapsible Pistol Crossbow," Jonathan explained. "'Cause it's a small crossbow, like a pistol, a-and the arms extend o-or collapse when you flick the switch. 'CPC' is just, y'know, quicker to say and all."

"Quite, quite," Giles agreed. "A-and the Frezzon exploded, you say?"

Jonathan nodded. "Uh-huh."

"It sounds like you must have hit one of the main pressure points, then – that's quite remarkable shooting," said Giles.

"More like dumb luck, really," Jonathan admitted. "I-I've been practicing whenever I can, b-but I'm not a very good shot."

"Well, I'm sure you'll get better with more practice," Giles said kindly. "I presume that the circumstances of the demon's demise are somehow connected with Ms Kendall's, ah… state of comprehensive undress, when you arrived?"

"Y-yeah, well, sh-she was real close to the Frezzon wh-when I, um, sh-shot it, and kinda got soaked in its blood and guts and stuff," Jonathan miserably continued. "Sh-she was kinda shocked, too shocked to scream or anything like that, a-and then her clothes started dissolving, u-until… _well…"_ He trailed off, blushing bright crimson.

"A-and when this, ah… textile dissolution, shall we say… was completed, w-was there anything left of the Frezzon's bodily fluids, or-or entrails?" Giles pressed.

"Uh, yeah, th-they were still there for a second or two, all over Harmony; th-then they vanished – like, 'soaked in' kinda vanished, n-not 'evaporated' vanished or-or 'disappeared' vanished. A-after that, Harmony looked completely dry."

Giles nodded, as if his suspicions had been confirmed. "Jonathan… did Ms Kendall say anything between that juncture and the moment that she fainted?"

"Uh, yeah, it was really weird, even by Sunnydale standards," said Jonathan. "She, um… sh-she _apologised_ to me."

"Apologised?" Giles frowned, puzzled. "F-for what, may I ask?"

Jonathan shrugged. "I-I couldn't really work out that part – sh-she was babbling, like, really _really_ fast, t-too fast for me to make out the, um… th-the details."

"Well, that could the side effects of the Frezzon's blood manifesting themselves," Giles mused.

"Uh… wh-what exactly _are_ the side effects, Mr Giles?"

"The Frezzon demon's blood has been noted to have… unusual effects on human beings – completely harmless effects, I assure you," Giles hastened to add, noting Jonathan's panicked expression as the boy began hyperventilating in worry.

"Quite simply, i-it removes inhibitions, releases repressed emotions, and reveals concealed personality traits, often greatly at odds with their prior normal behaviour," Giles continued. "The various cases documented by the Council include a penny-pinching miser who suddenly started making regular donations to charity; a-an extremely 'macho' professional pugilist who began studying a-and performing ballet as a hobby; a Soviet sleeper agent in Australia who'd maintained her cover for nearly ten years before she suddenly became completely incapable of telling a lie… all very odd and unexpected, yes, b-but in each incidence, there was no adverse effect whatsoever t-to the subject's health."

"S-so… Harmony's gonna be okay? But she'll change, somehow?"

"Yes, and yes," said Giles.

"Wh-what kind of changes could these be?"

"W-well, perhaps she'll, um, develop some manner of-of artistic interest?" Giles suggested. "I-if she's been allowing pressure from her peers to mould her _outward_ persona over the years, sh-she could be quite a different person underneath. If she apologised to you, then this could indicate that she has inwardly regretted having wronged you in some manner."

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Sunnydale High School, Sunnydale, CA**

"Hey, Oz!" Andrew called out cheerfully as the werewolf guitarist entered the library.

"Hey," Oz replied simply. "You guys have something?"

Warren nodded as he stood up from his seat at the main study table where he'd set up his laptop, and handed over a couple of printouts. "Well, we _think_ we've got a lead on her location."

Oz blinked as he accepted the printouts. "That's good work," he said calmly; recognising this for the high praise it was, Andrew beamed at him, and Warren looked proud. "Where's she been?"

"Sanctuary General Hospital, San Andreo; i-it's just up the coast," said Andrew. "Sh-she got discharged only a couple weeks ago: w-we found her new address…"

Oz nodded. "Okay… I'll go check it out. Can you guys cover for me with the others if they ask?"

"Sure thing – Colonel," Warren said, grinning. "You want someone along to ride shotgun for you?"

Oz shook his head. "Thanks, but I'll be back long before sundown, and it should be pretty quiet. I need you guys to make sure Giles doesn't find out."

Warren and Andrew nodded in understanding. "Yeah, I guess the last thing he needs is to get his hopes up if this doesn't pan out," Warren agreed.

"Any news on Buffy?"

Andrew shook his head. "N-no, nothing."

"Yeah, wherever she is, she's staying well off the grid," Warren said, looking glum. "We called that lady from MI-6 just half an hour ago: they've had had no luck, too."

Oz nodded, then glanced around the library. "By the way, where's Jonathan?" he asked.

"H-he called in from Mr Giles' place about half an hour ago," said Andrew. "He ran into a bad-guy demon on his way over here…"

Warren nodded. "Yeah, said he needed to talk to Mr Giles about it, and it was a long story, but he'd be over later and he'd catch us up on everything then – he didn't want to run up Mr Giles' 'phone bill too much."

"He's okay?" Oz checked.

"Yeah, he said he was fine," Andrew replied, shyly smiling.

Oz nodded again. "Good."

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**17B Gallin Avenue, Sunnydale, CA**

Harmony Kendall let out a sleepy grunt of "Wstfgl," rolled over onto her side, and lovingly buried her face into her pillow, enjoying the simple pleasure of a narrow ray of sunlight streaming through a small gap in the curtains and warming her cheek.

Her eyes fluttered open a crack and she gave a small sigh of contentment, yawned, then smacked her lips, admiring the way a slim stream of dust motes danced through the air above the red-and-green patterned pillowcase.

Slowly, sluggishly, Harmony's subconscious registered that something was amiss, and tried to alert her conscious mind to this fact.

Harmony groaned again, absently reaching up with her left hand to brush some stray strands of hair from her face, then resumed wondering what it was that was wrong, hoping that she could then go back to sleep.

By now, Harmony's subconscious was performing the mental equivalent of jumping up and down, waving its arms and screaming at her.

Still feeling blissfully sleepy, Harmony's face creased into a puzzled frown. She pondered her surroundings: soft, comfortable bed… check… nice warm patch of sunlight… check… dust motes making pretty patterns that, if she squinted just right and really wanted to see it, looked a little like the outline of a unicorn; with a little more squinting, it could even just about pass for Twilight Sparkle… check… red-and-green patterned pillowcase covering a lovely soft comfy pillow… check…

Harmony's subconscious mind began firing off signalling flares and picked up a megaphone.

Harmony's frown deepened, and she opened her eyes fully to give the pillowcase a thoughtful stare.

'_Wait a second…'_ she slowly mused, _'…my bed sheets are a 'My Little Pony' set.'_

Her eyes slammed open wide as she returned to full wakefulness, and Harmony sat up in bed with a start – then let out a small startled yelp when the duvet fell away, and she realised that she was completely naked beneath it.

Grabbing at the duvet, Harmony quickly tugged it up to cover her bosom and held it in place around herself with one hand, then began taking in her surroundings.

The bedroom itself was small, and the presence of a pair of bookcases crammed full of books lining one wall hinted that it was rarely – if ever – used for resting or sleeping in. The bed, however, was very soft and comfortable; and a small chair occupied one corner near the bed's head. A soft blue dressing gown was draped over the chair; beneath the gown, Harmony could just about see the top of a stack of neatly-folded clothes. The curtains had been drawn, but a small gap admitted a sliver of sunlight.

Letting the duvet drop away, Harmony swung her legs around and let her feet drop to the carpeted floor with a gentle _thump_. Standing, she shrugged into the dressing gown, then noticed a pair of slippers set out on the floor by the bed. Slipping them on and tying the gown shut, she sat back down on the bed. The slippers were a bit big for her, but felt very soft and comfortable.

Listening carefully, she heard voices – distant, calm, and somewhere below her. There were two voices, she realised, and both male; one sounded a little nervous, the other comforting and reassuring in its tone.

Laying the clothes out beside her on the bed, Harmony considered them thoughtfully: they were all clearly men's clothes, fairly new-looking, and didn't appear to have been worn before. There was a selection of several shirts available to her, two pairs of jeans, a variety of boxer shorts and socks, and a roll of bandages.

Harmony stared at this last item and scratched her head; several seconds later, her eyes lit up as she smiled and nodded to herself. Removing the dressing gown, she set about winding the bandages around her chest to tie up her bosom.

**[—]**

Having taken a few minutes to finish dressing herself, Harmony pulled open the bedroom door and began heading downstairs.

Giles glanced up at the sounds of creaking stairs and Harmony's too-large slippers _flop-flopping_ in time to her footsteps, and favoured her with a kind smile. "Ah! It's so good to see you've recovered, Ms Kendall."

Harmony's forehead creased in concentration as she wracked her memory. "Umm… Mister… Gelis, isn't it?" she asked.

"It's 'Giles', actually," the Watcher gently corrected her.

Harmony blushed as she reached the bottom of the stairs. "Oh! Uh, um, I-I'm really sorry…"

Giles' smile broadened. "Oh, that's quite all right, I assure you."

"H-hi, Harmony?" Jonathan timidly stammered out as he turned to peer at her over the back of his armchair.

Harmony felt herself go weak at the knees, and fought to speak around the lump fast-forming in her throat. "H-hey, J-Jonathan…"

Giles nervously cleared his throat as he stood, gesturing for Harmony to take a seat. "Er, w-would you care for some tea, Ms Kendall? It works wonders for settling the nerves after a shock."

"Oh, er, y-yes, please," Harmony managed to get out as she sat down.

"Splendid!" With that, Giles bustled off into his kitchenette as quickly as he could escape.

Harmony turned to face Jonathan again, her mind racing at almost insane speeds, her eyes wide and round. _'What do I say, what do I say, what do I say?'_ she wondered frantically. _'I need to say something… smart… and… um… er… really smart…'_

"…sorry…?"

Jonathan – who up to that point had been equally paralysed with indecision – did a double-take in response to Harmony's squeaked utterance. "Um… er… wait, what?" he bemusedly stammered out. "Um, I-I, uh… I don't understand…"

Harmony bit her lip, the corners of her eyes prickling uncomfortably as she leaned forward in her armchair, forcing herself to meet Jonathan's gaze. "I-I'm really, really sorry, Jonathan… I-I-I can't believe I was s-so, so _mean_ to you, a-all these years, a-and I know you'll never forgive me, and you sure have every right to hate me…

"I-I've become such a nasty, horrible person… I-I know I was always scared o-of being picked on and bullied a-and not having any friends back when I was just starting school, a-and then I went a-and became a bully myself – I can't believe I could _do_ something like that!

"I'm a idiot tramp, just like everyone at school says, and I'm _stupid! Worthless! Useless!_ A-and I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I am so, _so_ sorry…!" At last she broke off her babbling, hanging her head in miserable shame and self-disgust, her tears blurring her vision as they fell freely by now, her sobs punctuated by hiccups.

The next thing Harmony knew, a pair of hands had gently taken her own.

"H-Harmony?" Jonathan said very quietly, squatting awkwardly before her armchair. Pausing to take a deep breath, he released it and ploughed on: "Harmony… it's gonna be okay…"

Harmony hiccupped loudly as fresh tears began coursing down her cheeks, unable to string a coherent sentence together.

"C'mon, Harmony," Jonathan gently coaxed her, releasing one of her hands and fishing out a half-empty pack of tissues from his jeans pocket. Pulling a tissue from the pack, he placed it in her hand. "Here you go… please, H-Harmony, I promise it's gonna be okay…"

Harmony raised her head, squinting a little as she tried to peer through the mist of tears blurring her vision.

"I don't hate you, Harmony. I really don't."

Harmony felt her heart skip a beat at those words, and her mind crashed to a halt.

"Do you know how many times the jocks at school have beat me up and stuffed me in a locker, just 'cause they were feeling bored and didn't have anything to do? I know _I_ don't – I lost count years ago," Jonathan continued. "At least I always knew that _you_ would never, like, put me in hospital or something. And to be honest, your insults? Nothing like as bad as what Cordelia can dish out when she's on the warpath."

Shakily, Harmony closed her left hand around the proffered tissue and slowly raised it to her face, her entire arm trembling as she began wiping tears from her left cheek. Her right hand clenched tightly around Jonathan's left as if it were her lifeline; a few seconds later, she felt Jonathan give her hand a gentle squeeze. Feeling reassured, Harmony continued to mop her tears from her face, until the tissue was completely sodden. She paused, uncertain.

"S'okay, I got it," Jonathan said soothingly; Harmony felt him take hold of one end of the soggy tissue between two fingertips and lightly tug it from her grasp, and a few seconds later he pressed a fresh one into her hand. "It's okay, Harmony."

A few minutes and several more tissues passed, until at last Harmony finished blowing her nose and blinking tears from her eyes. "I-I'm so sorry, Jonathan," she said, her voice trembling.

Jonathan gave her a nervous but sincere smile. "It's okay, Harmony… but thanks."

Harmony quickly leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him, hugging him tightly. Eyes wide with astonishment, Jonathan struggled to keep from overbalancing, and returned her embrace. Slowly, his smile widened, losing its nervous quality and acquiring one of surprised awe.

"Thank you," Harmony whispered, her lips almost right next to Jonathan's ear. "Th-thank you for… for this… a-and for earlier… You saved me, f-from that… that m-monster… _thank you!"_

"Uh, hey, no problem – honestly, I just got really, _really_ lucky, is all," Jonathan assured her, still smiling.

Pulling back a little, Harmony kissed him on the cheek. "You still saved my life, Jonathan," she said very seriously. "Th-that… monster, whatever it was… when it was chasing me, i-it told me all the horrible things it wanted to do to me b-before it killed me… _slowly_… a-and use b-bits of me t-to make a-a suit of skin and-and guts and stuff a-and sell what it didn't need…"

Jonathan nodded. "You're welcome, Harmony," he told her.

"Tea's up!" Giles loudly announced: jumping in surprise, both teenagers turned to see him bustling back into the living room carrying a tray full of mugs, the contents of which were steaming.

Breaking their embrace, Harmony sat back in her armchair while Jonathan returned to his own, both of them blushing a little. Feigning not to notice – and struggling mightily to maintain this illusion – Giles handed out the fresh mugs, loading his and Jonathan's now-empty mugs from earlier onto the tray before setting it to one side to be dealt with later.

"So, Ms Kendall: might I enquire as to what you remember of the… incident… that scared you so much this morning?" Giles politely asked as he sat down.

Harmony took a sip of her tea to buy herself time. "M-Mr Giles… I know you won't believe me, b-but I can promise you I'm not crazy," she said nervously. "I-I was on my way over to the mall t-to meet up with Aura and Aphrodesia and the rest of the girls to check out this sale, and I was running late so I took a shortcut… a-and the next thing I knew, I was alone on this empty street – no cars moving, no other people around – a-and there was this ugly monster, and it saw me, and I started to run, and it chased after me… a-and then Jonathan shot it with this, like, mini-bow and arrow, kinda like something you'd see in a Robin Hood movie… and the monster blew up."

Harmony paused, wrinkling her nose. "That was pretty gross," she continued. "A-and a bunch of… well, I really want to just say 'goop' and leave it at that, 'cause if it was what I think it was, then that's really really gross a-and I don't wanna be sick… splashed all over me… a-and then it disappeared and took my clothes with it… and my head felt really really horrible, like I'd been on a really fast rollercoaster with lots of loops, and… well, a-and then I fainted," she concluded awkwardly.

Giles gave a thoughtful nod as he took a sip from his own drink. "Mm-mm… I see," he said as he lowered the mug.

"_Please_ believe me, Mr Giles," Harmony begged, putting her mug down on a nearby coffee table and clasping her hands together in her lap. "I-I _know_ it sounds insane, but I promise you that every word is _totally_ true…"

She trailed off as Giles gave her a kind smile and nodded. "I believe you, Ms Kendall," he said.

Harmony stared at him in silent shock.

Putting his mug on the coffee table, Giles picked up an old leather-bound book and opened it, searching through the pages until he found what he was looking for. Turning the book around, he handed it to Harmony. Her jaw dropped as she recognised the fine ink sketch, and she looked up at Giles and Jonathan.

"Not only do I believe you, but I can tell you the name of the species of your 'monster', its dietary habits and requirements, and the weak points of its anatomy – although I understand that you've already seen Jonathan exploit one of those to good effect this morning," Giles said, his tone very gentle. "Furthermore – and, perhaps, rather more importantly – I can also explain the side effects that are experienced by human beings who are exposed to its blood… just as you yourself were earlier."

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Infirmary, Stargate Command**

**US Air Force Cheyenne Mountain Complex, Colorado**

"Hey, here's trouble," Janet Fraiser quipped as a now-regular visitor sauntered through the infirmary doors. "Something I can do for you, sir?"

His hands shoved in his trouser pockets, the USAF officer in question gave her a boyish grin of pure angelic innocence and waggled his eyebrows at her. "Ask not what you can do for your Major, ask what your Major can do for you."

"Uh-_huh."_ Janet tipped her head a little to one side, a sceptical expression on her face.

He held up his hands in surrender. "Easy, Doc – I just dropped by to say 'hi' to your patients. They awake?"

She grinned. "Boy, those reports have _really_ got you cornered, haven't they?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," he replied loftily. "You must have me mixed up with some _other_ dilatory Major."

Still grinning, she waved a hand in the direction of the nearest ward. "Visit away, sir: last time I checked, Sam's asleep, but Colonel O'Neill's playing with his GameBoy. I'll be in my office when you're done, if you want to talk about anything: otherwise, I'll see you at your pre-mission physical at thirteen-hundred hours."

He smiled back at her. "Thanks, Doctor."

**[—]**

Even with the curtains drawn for privacy, identifying which bed belonged to one Colonel Jack O'Neill, US Air Force, was very easy – he just had to follow the sounds of bleeping and explosions and the cheesy sound effects of spaceships in flight.

"Hey, Jack," he called out by way of greeting, sticking his head through the curtains. "I'd knock, but you're fresh outta doors…"

Looking up from his GameBoy as it noisily proclaimed "GAME O-VER", Jack rolled his eyes. "Ha-ha, _very_ funny…" he drawled, laying the game down on his stomach.

"Just thought I'd pop by – I got a briefing with my team in an hour, and then we're into the mission prep cycle."

Jack nodded as his guest sat down by the bed. "Where're you off to this time?"

"P3A-577."

"What, the same place you guys were headed for when we had that thing with that kid, Casey? The one that got cancelled outright later 'cause of the torrential rain?"

"That's the one." His guest gave a heavy sigh. "Here's hoping it works out better this time around… Anyway, how're you doin', Jack? You and Carter gonna be done defrosting from your little trip to Antarctica anytime soon?"

Jack grimaced. "Fraiser wants to keep Carter in for another week of observation; and I've got at least two more to go before this—" he reached down and rapped his knuckles against the cast on his left leg for emphasis "—comes off. What's the MALP telemetry on -577 look like?"

"The meteorology team think the local monsoon season's passed, and we had clear blue skies an' plenty of sunshine when we first sent the new probe through. I haven't seen anything more recent than eighteen hours old, though…"

"Lucky bastard," Jack grumbled good-naturedly.

"Yeah, I know – SG-2 sure seems to have a quieter time than SG-1."

"Plus or minus the occasional firefight with Apophis' Jaffa, if memory serves."

"True, true. Anything I can get you, or are you good 'til my team an' me get back?"

"Nah, I'm fine, thanks, Charlie."

Nodding, Major Charles Kawalsky rose from his chair, clapping Jack on the shoulder. "Get walking again soon, Jack," he encouraged. "We need you out there, exploring new worlds and kicking alien bad guy butt."

"Well, I guess for now they'll just have to make do with you," Jack snarked, grinning.

Kawalsky chuckled as he turned away. "See ya later, Jack!" he tossed over his shoulder.

"Hey!" Jack's call stopped Kawalsky dead in his tracks and made him turn back. "If -577's got a gift shop, pick me up somethin' cool, will ya?"

Kawalsky's grin widened. "Sure," he agreed. "How 'bout a snow globe?"

"'Snow globe'?" Jack repeated incredulously, before waving his fist in an exaggerated threatening manner while grinning, "I'll snow globe _you_, you little—!"

"Yeah, sure – see ya around, 'Homer'," Kawalsky laughed, cutting him off.

"D'oh!"

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**17B Gallin Avenue, Sunnydale, CA**

"Demons and magic… are real," Harmony said dazedly.

Giles favoured her with an understanding and sympathetic smile. "It's hard to believe, I know," he told her.

Harmony shook her head. "Actually, this explains a _lot_."

"Really? Oh, well, that's, erm, that's good…"

"I always _wondered_ why all those dead bodies kept turning up in my locker… and then there was that freaky giant naked mole rat that trashed the Chemistry labs and ate all the cheese in the cafeteria…" Harmony continued, sounding thoughtful.

Giles looked startled. "Erm… Harmony… exactly how many corpses _have_ you found in your locker?" he warily asked.

"This month, this school year, or ever?"

Giles realised his mouth was hanging open in shock, and quickly shut it. "Erm… all?"

"Two, nineteen, and I lost count in my first year of junior high, in that order. My god, I must have been a complete _idiot_ not to have realised that wasn't normal!"

Giles and Jonathan stared at Harmony for several long seconds, until at last Giles awkwardly cleared his throat. "Yes, well, erm… i-i-it's far from unheard-of for people to, ah, 'blank out', as it were, when confronted with such things; you're far from the only person in Sunnydale to have done that sort of thing," said Giles. "What you've just described sounds, ah, rather like a-a-a classic example of what Buffy and her friends dubbed 'Sunnydale Syndrome'… T-to take another example, there were literally hundreds of witnesses to the giant naked mole rat's rampage through the school, b-but almost none of them seems willing to let themselves remember the incident."

Harmony brightened up at that. "Well, that's a relief, I guess… OH! I just remembered! When I found the latest dead guy in my locker this Thursday? He was all stinky and had grey skin, and when I opened my locker he opened his eyes and he went something like 'Uhh! Uhhhhhh!' and then he tried to bite me."

Hands trembling, Giles hastily set down his mug of tea before he could spill it. "A-and w-what did you do, Harmony?" he quavered.

"Well, I was all, like, 'Ew! _Gross!'_ and I yanked my hand away and slammed the door shut really fast and locked it," said Harmony. "And when I reported it to Principal Snyder, he kinda looked freaked out and told me not to tell anyone else, so I didn't; but I went back to my locker the next day and listened real hard, and I could hear the dead guy still going 'Uhh! Uhhhh!' inside, so I didn't dare open it. It was really weird 'cause normally when you find a dead body in your locker, the cops show up in under half an hour flat and remove it, but they didn't do that this time."

"H-Harmony…" Jonathan said, "…uh, I haven't been doing this sort of thing all that long, b-but it sounds like you've got a zombie in your locker."

Harmony's eyes widened in horror. "What? _Zombies_ are real, too?" she shrieked. "Are they like the ones in zombie movies?"

Jonathan nodded.

"_EW!"_ Harmony squealed, hugging herself and shivering in disgust. "I've got a real freaking zombie in my locker at school? Ew, ew, _EW!"_

Giles dug an old envelope out from a stack of ancient tomes about demons, where it had been serving as a part-time bookmark, and pulled a biro from his shirt pocket. "Harmony, would you be so kind as to write down your locker number and its combination?" he asked. "I rather think that someone should dispose of its undead inhabitant as quickly as possible…"

"Sure!" Harmony said, accepting the envelope and pen and hastily scribbling down the requested information.

"Thank you," Giles said, accepting the envelope back: getting up, he headed over to his phone.

"Are you okay?" Jonathan quietly asked.

Shivering a little, Harmony nodded. "Yeah… just freaking out a little," she said.

Behind them, Giles dialled a number and waited patiently.

"Trust me, that's perfectly normal," Jonathan told her. "After the first time Andrew and Warren and me ran into zombies for real, we finished our patrol early and went back to Warren's place together to freak out properly over nearly getting eaten alive and everything. We all had nightmares that night, and none of us got much sleep."

"You've fought those things before, then?" Harmony asked, curiosity piqued.

"Hello?" Giles said. "Ah, Captain – excellent. It's Giles. I've just learned of a situation at the school… a zombie. …Just the one that I know of."

Jonathan nodded. "Yeah, but at least it was just the one time."

"If… if that zombie, the one in my locker… if it had bitten me… would I have turned into a zombie too?" Harmony quavered.

"Probably," Jonathan said, wincing. "I mean, i-if it bit your hand, a-and you had your forearm amputated before the necrosis could spread, then you _might_ have survived, but…" He broke off, looking uncomfortable.

Harmony turned very pale. "Oh, god…" she quietly groaned.

"Locker 10-23," Giles continued. "Combination 9-1-9-3-9. …I'm sorry? I think we must have a bad line… Ah, I see now: one zombie, male, late teens or older, grey skin – groaning a lot, too, apparently. Could you send a few of your men over to get rid of it? …Excellent, thank you very much, Captain, that's most good of you. Goodbye." So saying, he hung up. "Right: well, that will soon be taken care of," Giles confidently told the two teens.

"Uh, w-was that the leader-guy of those British soldiers you told me about?" Harmony asked.

Giles nodded. "Captain Hastings, yes. I should warn you, Harmony, that his chaps will very likely incinerate everything inside your locker after they kill the zombie, so as to make absolutely certain that nobody else can get infected…"

Harmony shook her head. "That's fine," she assured him. "I don't want to go near _any_ of my stuff that's touched that zombie, thanks, let alone _touch_ it. Eugh!"

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Sunnydale High School, Sunnydale, CA**

The area sandwiched between the backs of the school's gymnasium and swimming pool building was kept permanently in shade during daylight hours. Dark, dank and dingy, it had evolved over the decades into a cluttered dumping ground of damaged equipment, beer cans that had been illicitly emptied despite Snyder's best efforts, and a pair of ancient rusting dumpsters. It wasn't unheard-of for the occasional corpse to turn up there, too, although the students' lockers were still where the majority of the dead bodies on the school's premises were found.

A stray cat poked her head out of one of the dumpsters. Her yellow-green eyes narrowed as she stared suspiciously at the gap between the dumpster and the gym's cast-iron fire escape ladder.

A brilliant purple-blue glare lit up the dumping ground, reflecting crazily in the cat's eyes. Discarded beer cans and wrappers and other litter whipped up into a miniature whirlwind and the stink of ozone filled the air.

Glittering electrical discharges arced from the cat's dumpster to a nearby rusty tap and climbed a drainpipe on the back of the gym like a Jacob's Ladder; the fire escape ladder was glittering like a set of Christmas tree lights. The spark of glittering light hung in the air, then began to grow, expanding in the blink of an eye from a miniscule spark to the size of a human head—

And then it was over.

Nothing more extraordinary had happened, and normality had returned.

Staring at where the light had been, the cat hissed angrily: she'd crossed town to avoid the last place that this had happened, only for it to start up all over again.

Springing down from the dumpster, the disgruntled cat slunk away.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Richards Drive, Sunnydale, CA**

"So… you don't like zombies, huh?" Jonathan said in a sympathetic tone of voice.

Walking beside him and still wearing her borrowed clothes, Harmony shook her head. "That's a big 'nope'," she said, then shuddered. "When I was dating Percy West last year, he took me to see a zombie movie at the drive-through, and I freaked out: I kept asking him if we could leave, 'cause I was getting really scared; and he just laughed it off and told me not to be such a big baby, and he made me stay in the car for the whole movie…"

Jonathan looked revolted. "He really _did_ that?"

Harmony nodded. "Yeah…"

Jonathan shook his head. "Man… I knew that that guy could be a real asshole – after all, he's stuffed me into lockers enough times – but that's, like, a whole new level of assholedom, or something…"

"I guess zombie movies aren't all that scary for you and your friends, huh?" said Harmony. "I-I mean, compared to the real thing and all…"

"Actually, they really creep us out," Jonathan said, glancing at her. "I know exactly how you feel… well, kinda, no one's ever made fun of me for not liking them… Me and the guys – Warren and Andrew – we rented 'Dawn of the Dead' from the video store a few weeks back, 'cause it's supposed to be a classic and the best of the whole zombie movie genre, but we stopped the tape after, like, only five minutes.

"Warren and me were _totally_ creeped out by the whole thing; and Andrew was trying really hard to be brave 'cause he thought he'd ruin it for us if we saw how scared he was. But after he realised that we didn't like the movie either, he stopped hiding it and let himself start crying 'cause it scared him so much, and we hugged him 'til he felt better… Anyway, after that, we dug out a Star Trek movie to watch instead and help us forget about the zombies, and that worked – it was the one where they go back in time to find some whales—"

Harmony perked up at that. "Oh, I know that one!" she squealed happily. "I saw it on TV a couple of years back. I didn't understand some of it… Like, what they needed to take the whales to the future for, or-or who everyone was… well, who _anyone_ was, actually… I guess I didn't understand _any_ of it, really… But it was still a really fun movie." A faint moue of distaste then crossed her face. "But I didn't dare tell anyone that I liked it… 'cause you're not supposed to enjoy stuff like Star Trek if you're in the 'popular' crowd," she finished bitterly. "God, I've been so pathetic…"

Jonathan gave her a small smile. "Hey, it's okay – you've changed, now," he said.

Harmony looked worried. "Wh-what if I change back, though?"

"Mr Giles said that this – the way you're thinking and feeling now – is, like, your true self left completely exposed, with all the 'pretending to be someone you're not' stuff taken away, and it's impossible for you to change back," Jonathan assured her. "A-and he _really_ knows what he's talking about, so I'm sure he's right."

"I hope he is," Harmony said gloomily. "I really do. I don't wanna go back to being… like I was before today. I don't wanna be a coward again."

Jonathan gave her a small smile. "Harmony… if you'd been, y'know, like this, your real self… how different do you think the world would be?"

Harmony shrugged. "I… I don't know. Not a lot, I guess… but it's a safe bet that I wouldn't have made so many people unhappy?"

"But that's the all-time worst thing you've done, right? You called some other kids nasty names and stuff like that."

"I… guess so?" Harmony cautiously agreed.

Jonathan looked down at the pavement. "Me and Warren and Andrew… we might have done way worse."

Harmony frowned, puzzled. "Wh-what do you mean?"

Biting his lower lip, Jonathan looked back up to meet her gaze. "We figured out that the supernatural was real," he said very quietly. "We worked out that Buffy was some kinda superheroine and fought bad guys, and that Mr Giles and her friends and Cordelia helped her…

"And then we didn't do anything. For three months, we didn't do anything to try to help them… we just stayed out of their way."

"But why?" Harmony asked, sounding honestly confused.

"'Cause… 'cause we were scared," Jonathan confessed. "'Cause w-we thought that if we asked Buffy if she'd let us help her out, she'd just say 'no' – I mean, hey, she already had Willow helping her, and she's one of the smartest people anywhere in Sunnydale; hell, she's probably one of the smartest people in California. What would Buffy need _us_ for?

"And they seemed to be on top of everything, handling the vampires and demons and other bad guys just fine without us… And it was scary, y'know? Okay, so we all had a little bit of talent for magic – and I mean really, really little – and we were pretty smart, but… what could _we_ do against monsters like vampires?" Jonathan shook his head. "A fat lot of nothing… at least, that's what we thought back then.

"Only, now we know different… we were wrong about it. About _all_ of it.

"We _could_ have helped; Buffy and her friends would have been happy to accept all the help they could possibly get. Maybe we could have saved some lives: maybe – just maybe – some of the people who died could have been saved, could be alive today, if we'd just had the _guts_ to step up when we first figured everything out, instead of waiting until the Scooby Gang were all dead or in hospital or on the run…

"But we didn't do _anything_. We were scared. We were cowards. We did nothing. And now… we've gotta live with knowing that maybe some people died because of that."

Harmony stared at Jonathan, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "…I'm sorry," she finally whispered.

A small smile crossed Jonathan's face. "It's not your fault, Harmony… but thanks."

"Think about it, though… you guys needed time to, y'know, get used to using magic and stuff, right? S-so maybe you started fighting bad guys at the right time, when you could actually beat them?" Harmony suggested, sounding thoughtful.

"That's true; I-I guess you've got a point, there, Harmony," Jonathan conceded, visibly brightening up.

Harmony gave him a cautiously hopeful smile. "R-really? I-I do?"

"Er… Yeah?" Jonathan said, looking puzzled.

"Wow…" Harmony breathed. "Um… d-do you think maybe that demon's blood could've made me smarter, too?"

Jonathan shrugged. "That's never happened before, at least according to Mr Giles's books… so probably not."

Harmony looked glum. "So I guess I'm still dumb, then… it's just that even a stopped clock gets it right sometimes."

'_Oh man, I really really need something encouraging to say, here…'_ Jonathan mused. _'Erm… er… wait, I got it! Yes! That was one of the best pearls of wisdom in the "Back to the Future" trilogy!'_

"Oh, come on… if you set your mind to it, you can accomplish anything," Jonathan told Harmony. "I mean, before today, you were all about fitting in with the popular crowd, so you just didn't bother trying hard in class; I'm sure that now you'll do a lot better, an-and you'll find you're smarter than you know…"

Harmony shook her head. "Actually, I _was_ trying in class, 'cause my Mom didn't approve of me slacking off, so when I started junior high she told me I wouldn't get any clothes allowance if I didn't get good grades, so I always tried really really hard, and… well, I still can't master things like that 'long divider' stuff in Math, never mind allergic-bra or trigger-gnome-y or quack-static equestrians…"

Jonathan winced, then quickly tried to hide his expression.

"See?" Harmony groaned; clearly Jonathan's efforts had been in vain. "I can't even get their names right…"

"I-I-I'm sorry, Harmony…" Jonathan gabbled. "I-I'm really, really sorry, I didn't mean—"

"It's okay, it's not your fault, Jonathan," Harmony said. "I'm… I'm just dumb, is all." She sighed wistfully. "Not like you guys…"

Jonathan rubbed the back of his head, looking uncomfortable. "Well, hey, I wouldn't say we're really all _that_ smart…"

Harmony fixed him with a no-nonsense stare. "Jonathan, you and Warren and Andrew made a working freeze ray gun," she said seriously. "I'm no expert on science, but even _I_ know that that's a really huge deal."

"But it caught on fire the first time we used it…"

"So what? I'm sure that whoever built, like, the very first car had problems with it, a-and I _do_ remember from History class that the first airplane only stayed up in the air for, like, less than a minute. How long can modern airplanes stay up for – hours? A couple days, some of them? And they fly a lot higher and faster, too."

"Yeah…" Jonathan admitted.

"So, fact: you guys are smart. Also fact: I'm dumb."

"Well, Math isn't everything, y'know," Jonathan pointed out. "I'm sure there's something else out there that you _are_ good at…"

Harmony looked uncomfortable. "Like what? I'm just barely avoiding failing in all my subjects at school, a-and until today my only hobbies were cheerleading, being one of the nastiest girls in school, sucking up to Cordelia, and… well…" she paused, blushing bright crimson in mortified embarrassment, before shyly mumbling: "…stuff that I can't legally make a living doing… unless I move to, like, Nevada, o-or act in certain kinds of movies, a-and I _really_ don't wanna do that kinda work… a-and I really don't wanna do stuff like that again… w-well, not u-unless I've got a serious relationship with a really nice boyfriend… or-or maybe a girlfriend…"

Jonathan stared at her in bewilderment for a few seconds; then his eyes widened in realisation. "Oh… _oh!_ Right, I see… Um… well, maybe you can do something you've never had a chance to try in school, yet?" he quickly suggested, mentally casting around for inspiration. "Uh… a-are you any good at swimming? 'Cause if you are, then maybe you could get a job as-as a lifeguard, or a swimming instructor? I mean, hey, Sunnydale sure isn't short of beaches, a-and they're big attractions for the tourists, so they'll always need lots of lifeguards… I dunno if you could do that full-time or not, b-but it could be a part-time job you'd be good at…"

Harmony stopped dead in her tracks as she considered this, her gaze unfocused. "Huh… well, I've always enjoyed swimming; I just haven't had as much time for it as I woulda liked, 'cause I was always so obsessed with the 'popular crowd' thing…" she mused aloud, a smile slowly spreading across her face. "Yeah, there's a thought! Thanks, Jonathan!"

Jonathan gave a small smile. "Hey, no prob—" he began to reply, only to be cut off in surprise as Harmony hugged him. "—lem?"

Releasing Jonathan, Harmony gently took his hand in hers as they set off down the pavement again. Practically floating on air, Harmony lengthened her stride, swinging her hips more, a dreamy smile upon her face. Jonathan fell into step beside her, a little stunned and astonished at Harmony's demeanour.

She was happy. Honestly and truly happy, and she plainly didn't care who realised that.

Jonathan wracked his memory as they took the turning down Storm Drive; try though he might, he honestly couldn't remember having ever seen Harmony like this before. She hadn't looked happy even when she'd made another student run off in tears, or managed to land a date with a jock who was a rung further up the social ladder than even Cordelia's current boyfriend-of-the-week.

'_And… I helped make this happen?'_ Jonathan thought bemusedly. **'Me?** _Make a girl happy?'_

That thought brought him up short. _'Well, okay, so Faith's laughed at a couple of my jokes… well, at a couple of everyone's jokes, really; she sure likes a good laugh… a-and she thought our inventions were pretty cool…'_

Jonathan permitted himself a small smile. _'I never saw this coming… I'm spending time with girls these days, and I'm enjoying it, and they actually like me?_

'_And I've got real friends; I'm building stuff out of science fiction movies and comic books; I help fight bad guys every night; I get to work with an honest-to-god real live superheroine, a deeply cool Terminator, and a bunch of British commandos; and I've kinda got some magic superpowers, a-and I even invented a spell of my own…'_

Jonathan's smile widened. _'Life is really, really good. A little weird, but really good.'_

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**San Andreo, CA**

As Oz clambered out of his van and locked the door behind him, he took a long and slow look around at the suburban neighbourhood he was in.

'_Looks kind of like someone copied a block from that old TV show, 'Pleasantville','_ he pondered as he walked up the small bungalow's drive. _'Or maybe from 'The Stepford Wives'…'_ His blood ran cold at the thought. _'Stranger things have happened… and we know that robots can be built… like Ted…'_

The green-haired teenage werewolf paused in his tracks: his ears pricked up, and his nostrils flared as he drew in a deep and cautious sniff. He stood perfectly motionless for five seconds, then relaxed and continued on his way.

The portly fifty-something man who was washing his car on the drive outside the house next to Oz's destination shot the werewolf a puzzled glance, then shrugged and turned back to his task at hand.

'_False alarm,'_ Oz decided, as he stopped on the front porch and rang the doorbell. He looked at the number painted on the wall beside the button, then glanced down at the open notebook in his hand; the sound of footsteps inside the building reached his enhanced hearing, and he flipped the notebook shut.

The door opened a few inches, a security chain rattling as it was stretched to its full length. "Yes? Who is i— oh my goddess!"

Oz raised his left hand in a brief wave. "Hey, Miss Calendar."

The door was quickly pushed to: the security chain rattled noisily, accompanied by muffled feminine cursing, and then the door was flung open wide right before Jenny Calendar – a.k.a. Janna of the Kalderash tribe – rushed out and flung her arms around Oz. "Oh, goddess, Oz, you're _alive!"_

"'M g'd, th'nks," Oz grunted as the breath was squeezed out of him, and gingerly returned the embrace.

"Oh, jeez, I'm so sorry…" Jenny gasped as she slackened her grip. Pulling back a little, she looked at Oz, her gaze running from the top of his head to the hollow of his throat and back up to stare into his eyes.

Jenny smiled shakily, her eyes starting to brim with tears. "H-he said you w-were all dead… k-killed by the bomb w-we built to destroy the Judge…" Her voice trembled with powerful emotions. "B-but… oh, goddess, Oz, you're not the only one, are you?"

Oz shook his head. "Nope. Willow, Cordy, me, and Giles are all alive."

Jenny's knees buckled beneath her, and Oz had to support her weight. "Oh my goddess…" she whimpered.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**44 Storm Drive, Sunnydale, CA**

Melody Kendall stared wide-eyed at Jonathan. As she watched, the young man sitting on the sofa next to her daughter snapped his fingers, and the illusory flames covering his body vanished.

"…Incredible," Melody finally breathed.

Jonathan shook his head sheepishly. "A-actually, th-that's really just the tip of the iceberg… there're people out there with way more impressive superpowers or-or control of magic than anything I can do. Captain Reckliss is a more powerful mage than me, Warren and Andrew put together, a-and Xander's a real live Terminator…"

"A-are you sure you're okay with all this, Mom?" Harmony asked worriedly. "I-I mean, I know it's a lot to take in…"

Melody smiled reassuringly and shook her head. "I'm fine, Baby. And I think you were right when you told this Mr Giles that it explains a _lot_ about this town," she added with a gentle laugh.

"W-well, uh, i-it was really nice meeting you, Mrs Kendall, b-but I guess I-I'd better be going—" Jonathan stammered, standing up.

"_Oh,_ no," Melody cut him off, rising from her own seat. Before Jonathan could reply, she'd stepped over to him and enfolded the surprised teenage boy in a warm embrace.

"Uh, M-Mrs Kendall…?"

"You saved my daughter, young man," Melody said very quietly, very seriously. Pulling back a little, she sternly looked him in the eye. "You saved my baby's life… You saved her in so many ways. That is something I will never forget… a debt I can never repay… although that won't stop me from trying. Now, won't you at least stay for lunch?"

Jonathan essayed a small, nervous little smile. "Uh… o-okay?"

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**San Andreo, CA**

"I can't believe you're here," said Jenny. Sitting down on the sofa in her lounge, she handed a steaming coffee cup to Oz.

Oz shrugged. "I am," he said simply. "Wolfiness and all."

"'Wolfiness'?" Jenny asked before taking a sip of her coffee.

"I'm a werewolf now."

Jenny looked surprised. "Really? H-how?"

"I got bit."

Jenny stared at Oz, before deciding that he wasn't about to add anything else. "S-so what about Buffy?" she asked. "Y-you didn't mention her earlier…"

"Not sure; looks like she left town, though. No idea if she's still alive or not; no way to tell, either, unless she comes back or another Slayer turns up."

"Why would she do that?" Jenny asked, puzzled.

"Snyder blamed her for Kendra's murder, and Sunnydale's cops are really trigger-happy. Too much risk she'd get shot while 'resisting arrest'."

Jenny snorted. "Yeah, that'd explain it," she agreed dryly. "Wait – Kendra's dead?"

Oz nodded. "Drusilla killed her. Amy and Michael are dead, too; Angelus killed them when he found out they were researching his curse."

Jenny hung her head. "I should've been there…" she growled angrily.

Oz shrugged. "Why weren't you?"

Jenny carefully considered Oz. His tone hadn't been accusatory or challenging… he was simply asking for an explanation.

"The last memory I have of being in Sunnydale is when I detonated the bomb to destroy the Judge," Jenny slowly began. "After that… nothing… Absolutely nothing… Until I woke up in hospital."

"Sanctuary General Hospital."

Jenny looked startled. "Y-yes – how did you know?"

Oz's lips twitched into an almost invisible smile. "There's a new Scooby Gang," he said. "Some of them are really good with computers; they tracked you down. Warren Mears, Jonathan Levinson, and Andrew Wells."

Jenny frowned, wracking her memory. "I can place the others, but who's Andrew?"

"Tucker's brother."

"Oh, _him,"_ Jenny said, nodding.

"Please don't tell him I said that."

"Why not?"

"Tucker's kind of a jerk to him, so Andrew hates the whole 'Tucker's brother' thing. Think he'd rather have Warren and Jonathan as his big brothers instead."

"Fair enough," Jenny agreed. "Anyway… I woke up in Sanctuary with plenty of injuries – both my legs were broken, my left kidney was punctured… I was in pretty bad shape. I guessed something had gone wrong with the bomb."

Oz nodded. "Yeah, it was way more powerful than we thought it would be," he agreed. "Nearly half the mall got blown up with the Judge; the rest caught on fire and burned down. They built a new one in April."

"When I was well enough to have visitors, my uncle, Enyos, came to see me," Jenny continued, staring at her mug. "He told me that… that… that the blast killed you all, all of the Scoobies. That it had destroyed both the Judge _and_ Angelus."

She met Oz's gaze. "Did it get them?" she asked.

"You got the Judge," said Oz.

"But not Angelus."

Oz shook his head. "We think Buffy dusted Angelus back in May; looks like Spike skipped town with Drusilla around then. Word from the Council is they're in South America – Spike's been seen in Brazil, and Drusilla's hanging out in Argentina a lot."

Jenny slowly nodded. "My uncle also told me that there were many members of our clan who wanted to kill me for failing to prevent Angelus's curse from being lifted," she continued. "He said that he'd convinced them all that I died in the blast along with the rest of the Scoobies… h-he said I needed to lay low from now on; that he'd sold my place in Sunnydale, to help cover my tracks, and would help me serve the Kalderash's interests in secret when I got out of hospital…"

Jenny clutched her mug tightly. Screwing her eyes shut tight, she hung her head. "I should never have believed him… How could I have believed him?" she whispered bitterly.

Oz shrugged again. "'Cause he's your family… and you're supposed to be able to trust your family."

Jenny sniffled and opened her eyes. Looking up again, she let out a deep sigh. "So… what now?" she asked.

"Well, I _could_ chloroform you, tie you up, then sling you in the back of my van and drive you back to Sunnydale," Oz calmly offered, perfectly deadpan, then gave Jenny a small smile. "But it's kinda clichéd, y'know?"

Jenny chuckled at that. "True, that _is_ a serious flaw," she agreed.

"Do you want to go back to Sunnydale?" Oz asked.

"_C-can_ I go back, a-after keeping those secrets the way I did?" Jenny tremulously countered.

"I don't have a problem with that," said Oz. "Nor do the new guys. Nor does Faith."

"Faith?"

"New Slayer," Oz explained. "We're not sure if she got Called by Kendra's death or Buffy's."

"Ah."

"We missed you, Miss Calendar," Oz continued. "And there's a lot of people back in Sunnydale who'll be relieved to know you're safe.

"But as for if you come back? That's your choice; it's completely up to you."

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Initiative Base of Operations Echo Four, Sunnydale, CA**

The base's pistol range consisted of twenty lanes, each with a booth at one end and targets suspended at the other, with a miniature monorail mounted on the ceiling to connect both ends and ferry targets back and forth as needed. Well-lit, centrally heated and air conditioned, it was comfortable and well-appointed.

Standing in one of the booths with his ear defenders and safety glasses in place, Finn waited while the clip holding his paper target trundled along the monorail. Reaching the end, the clip then rotated ninety degrees so the target with its human torso-shaped outline faced him.

Finn's pistol swiftly cleared his holster and he brought it up, lined up the sights, squeezed the trigger; the pistol bucked and snarled as it spat its first .45 calibre round. A fraction of a second later he'd brought the barrel down and pulled the trigger again.

Three seconds later, the MK23's slide locked open. Hitting a button on the booth's control box, Finn then ejected the empty magazine and laid it on the booth's shelf next to a box of spare rounds, fresh targets and additional magazines as the mechanism whirred into life again, this time returning the target to the booth.

Looking up, Finn carefully inspected the target as it arrived. _'Not bad, not bad at all…'_ he silently mused. _'Seven nines, five tens, two of those in the X-ring…'_ Unclipping the ruined target, he snapped a fresh one in place, then hit another button on the control box to send the fresh target back down the range.

As he did so, he spotted a target in the next lane over trundling down the range as well, and he permitted himself a small smile. _'Wonder what kept Forrest?'_ he wondered while he slid a fresh magazine into his pistol and chambered a round, then slid the pistol into the holster strapped to his thigh.

Ten seconds later, both targets turned almost simultaneously.

Again Finn tore his pistol from his holster, lined up the sights, and squeezed the trigger; in the next lane over, Gates mirrored his actions. Both Initiative commandos blazed away, emptying their magazines into their respective targets.

As the targets rattled back to the booths, Finn felt a tap on his shoulder: turning around, he saw Miller carrying a sturdy-looking cardboard box under one arm, motioning for him to remove his ear defenders. As Finn slipped them off, Miller headed over to the next booth over, returning a few seconds later with Gates.

"What is it, Graham?" Finn asked.

"These just arrived," Miller said proudly, setting the box down on the shelf of Finn's booth. "New gear from Echo Seven, something their eggheads cooked up."

Opening the box, Miller pulled out a Sig Sauer P229 pistol and several magazines of ammunition. "Now, observe: a perfectly ordinary nine-millimetre pistol—" Miller held it up for emphasis, "—and a magazine of twenty perfectly ordinary nine-mill full-metal-jacketed rounds. You mind putting up a fresh target, Righ?"

Intrigued, Finn swapped out his tattered target with a fresh one, then hit the button to send it down the range before all three commandos slipped their ear defenders on. Miller inserted his pistol's magazine, chambered a round, the target swivelled to face them, and Miller promptly raised the pistol and opened fire, rapidly emptying the pistol's magazine into the target.

Lowering the Sig as its slide locked open, Miller slipped his ear defenders off and ejected his empty magazine while Finn hit the button to retrieve the target. "Now, _this_ is the new toy from Echo Seven," Miller announced, pulling a fresh magazine from the box and holding it out to Finn and Gates. "Take a look."

Accepting the magazine, Gates scrutinised the pair of odd-looking cartridges in the top of the twin-row magazine; handing it to Finn, he turned to Miller. "Are these _tranquiliser_ rounds?" Gates asked.

Miller nodded. "Sure are!" he said enthusiastically. "But that's not the best part about them. Another target, Righ? Just thirty feet out this time."

"Okay…" Finn said as he handed back the magazine and swapped out the targets, then sent the new one down the range. All three commandos habitually replaced their ear defenders, and Miller slid the magazine of tranquilliser rounds into the pistol. Shortly after, the target rotated – and Miller fired, again emptying the magazine as quickly as he could into the target.

Slipping off their ear defenders, Finn and Gates stared in disbelief at the pistol.

"_That's_ the best part about those little suckers," Miller chuckled as he removed his own ear defenders.

"You don't need to do _anything_ to the weapon when you swap ammo types?" Finn said, still looking stunned.

Miller shook his head. "Not a thing," he agreed. "It's not like when you use blank rounds, and you have to fit a blank firing adaptor and use special magazines and stuff like that. These tranqs are strictly plug-and-play: you just slip them in a regular mag and fire them, no screwing around. Just don't put tranq rounds with regulars in the same magazine – the tranqs get overheated by the hot brass or something.

"The downsides are they've got less propellant so they've got less range, and so far they only come in nine-mill calibre. Echo Seven are working on getting budget for an assembly line to stamp them out in point forty-five and five fifty-six mill as well, but don't expect those to turn up 'til next year: there's too many projects and not enough funding to go 'round."

Gates nodded, looking thoughtful. "Man, those are sure gonna be useful for live-bag ops," he commented.

"Safer than the DEWS carbines, too," Finn agreed.

"Word is these things will take down a human target with just one hit, no problems, and there're no side effects or health issues to worry about if you put a half-dozen in the same target – but they haven't been tested against all that many HSTs," Miller warned them. "They might not always work on non-human targets."

"So we'll still need the DEWS carbines to knock out the really tough freaks," said Gates. "If we give one guy in each fire team a DEWS, and everyone carries at least one or two mags of tranqs, then that oughta cover all the bases for the live-bags."

Miller nodded in agreement. "Yeah, that could work," he agreed.

"We've got plenty of MP5s in the armoury, last time I looked – their longer barrels will give the tranqs a bit more range than a handgun," Finn mused aloud. "And being able to switch over to full auto will give us a useful option. Besides, using live nine-mill rounds shouldn't be too big a disadvantage – less chance of over-penetration that way."

"So we arm two guys per team with MP5s, with a couple mags of tranq rounds and the rest filled with lives," said Gates.

"Give the last guy in each team a CAR-15 – or maybe one of those new M4s when we get some – and mate it up with a Masterkey or a '203 for some heavy punch: that should give each team a good mix of firepower for regular patrols," Miller suggested. "That's a roughly even balance of lethal and non-lethal options."

Finn pulled a fresh magazine of the tranq rounds from the box and weighed it in his hand, a small smile on his lips, then looked up at his fellow officers. "Don't you just _love_ this job?" he asked rhetorically.

Gates snorted, amused. "Yeah… we get to play with all the cool toys, and we get _paid_ to do it, too…"

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Boston, MA**

The limousine wound its way skilfully through the evening rush hour traffic. In the back seat, Harlene Munroe had her mobile 'phone pressed to her ear, her briefcase open beside her. "Mason, I don't care if three operatives or thirty have been killed going after Lehane," Munroe snapped. "We need a Slayer: we pull this off, and the Senior Partners will reward us like you can't even begin to imagine. So send someone – anyone – else after her already."

The limousine smoothly halted at a red traffic light. "Try Father Cullen: he and his 'freedom fighter' friends owe us _big_-time," Munroe ordered, oblivious to her surroundings. "Maybe Varrasta as well—"

The deafening roar of a powerful engine sounded behind, drowning out Mason's reply. Irritated, Munroe half-turned in her seat, looking around—

—the white eighteen-wheel tanker slammed into the limousine at close on sixty miles an hour. Up in the tanker's cab, the driver stared emotionlessly down at the limo. Light reflected briefly from the signet ring on his finger… a ring bearing the design of the Order of Taraka.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Sunnydale City Hall, Sunnydale, CA**

Wilkins strolled out of his office, a jaunty spring in his step and a broad smile on his face. "Allen!" he called out in a warm greeting. "What news do you have for me?"

"Uh, well, Mr Ellsworth said he thinks he's identified a suitable candidate," said Finch.

Wilkins' smile widened. "Excellent! Gosh, I'm going two for two today."

"Uh, I-I don't quite follow, sir…?" Finch admitted.

"I just got off the 'phone from a very nice man who gave me some excellent news concerning Miss Munroe," said Wilkins. "I don't think we'll have to worry about Wolfram & Hart poking their noses where they don't belong again…"

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**17B Gallin Avenue, Sunnydale, CA**

Night had only just fallen when Giles' doorbell rang. Making sure that a double-headed battleaxe was propped up next to the doorway where it was within easy reach, but positioned so it would be just out of sight from the porch, Giles warily opened his front door.

"Hey, Giles," Oz greeted him.

"Oz? Whatever's the matter—?" Giles paused, staring blankly as if he'd just been poleaxed. "Good lord…" he breathed.

Looking nervous and uncomfortable and quietly terrified, Jenny shakily smiled at him. "Hello, Rupert," she said quietly. "I… I'm sorr—"

Jenny got no further. The next thing she knew, she'd been enfolded in a bone-crushingly tight embrace as Giles clung to her as if for dear life, all notions of reserve abandoned in an instant.

Behind them, Oz's lips twitched into a small smile of satisfaction.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**


	15. Chapter 15

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**No Fate: The Collected Data Files**

**Chapter Fifteen – Always a Little Further Part Three**

**Sunday 15th June 1997**

**Stirling Lines, Hereford, England**

**22nd Special Air Service Regimental Headquarters**

Clad in Embassy Black Tie, a fire team stood stacked up by the deliveries entrance of the 'embassy building' in the Killing House complex.

In the Number Three slot on the stick, Faith quickly affixed a small explosive charge to the door's upper hinge, then a second charge to the bottom hinge, and finally activated each charge's firing device. Backing off, she extended the aerial on her detonator, flipped up the cover to expose the little switch on its side, checked that all four green lights had illuminated on the detonator, then turned to Newton – who occupied the Number One slot, with Deano as Number Two and Xander as Number Four – and nodded.

"Go!" Newton shouted, his voice muffled by his respirator.

Faith flipped the switch, and a deafening bang smacked into her ears.

The ensuing shockwave shuddered up through Faith's legs. Surprisingly neat-looking holes in the door and wall marked where the hinges had vanished in the explosion.

A swift kick from Deano sent the door flying inwards while he lobbed a pair of flashbangs inside, then snatched up his MP5 from its sling as the stun grenades detonated. Newton led the charge inside, closely followed by Deano, Faith and Xander.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Tuesday 17th June 1997**

The Agusta 109 screamed towards the target building, skimming dangerously low over the treetops – so low, in fact, that Faith swore she could have reached out of the door and grabbed a handful of leaves from the branches.

The loadmaster slid the side door back and open: a freezing gust of slipstream promptly rushed inside. Consulting his watch, the loadie threw out the rope, then consulted his watch again, eventually looked up at Faith…

And then he was shouting at her over the howling slipstream, screaming at the top of his lungs: "Go! Go! _Go!"_

Not even hesitating, Faith promptly grabbed the rope and hurled herself out into weightless nothingness, gloved hands only loosely holding the rope as it slid quickly, quickly, quickly through her grasp, dropping her nearly sixty feet in just under one second flat with only hard tarmac far, far below her…

…And then there was a concrete roof under her, the roof of the target building for this morning.

Faith locked her wrists at the last possible instant to arrest her descent: she creamed into the roof with a loud thud, released the rope, rolled out of the way a split-second before Newton came down right behind her, ripped her thick and heavy fast-roping gloves off and grabbed up her MP5 as the rest of the fire team came down.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Thursday 19th June 1997**

At first glance, the green mound looked like a perfectly normal part of the landscape.

A second and more expert glance would have detected certain oddities in the mound's shape.

A third and truly expert glance would have realised that there was something just a bit _too_ normal about this particular mound.

Huddled beneath her ghillie suit, Faith squinted through the telescopic sights of her weapon, an L96A1 sniper rifle, which was currently unloaded. Slowly, slowly, ever-so-slowly, she panned a little to the right, running her gaze appraisingly over the block of flats in the Killing House complex.

A flicker of movement caught her eye, and she backtracked a little until the view of a man in a boiler suit and a balaclava carrying a MAC-10 neatly occupied her sights. Faith made a careful note of which window he was in: on the west side, third floor, four in from the left. As she watched, he continued to peer suspiciously out of one of the windows for a few seconds, then turned away.

Faith keyed her comms: "Sierra Three: one x-ray, green, three, four lima," she reported.

Her earpiece crackled: _"Sierra Three, Romeo One Zero Alpha: roger that,"_ Nate replied.

Faith's gaze alighted upon another 'terrorist', in a window on the south side this time. "Sierra Three: one x-ray, white, two, two romeo," she sent.

"_Have that,"_ Nate sent back.

Faith resumed her search, running her gaze over several windows with sets of blinds.

Faith paused. _'Did that blind just twitch?'_ she wondered.

Reaching up to the top of her rifle's scope, Faith made a minute adjustment to the dial to zoom in on the windows. Slowly, slowly, she swept back across them, her eye peeled, patiently scrutinising every inch of every blind…

'_There!'_ Faith grinned triumphantly beneath her balaclava as the blind moved again, a pair of gloved fingers clearly visible. She keyed her comms: "Sierra Three: one x-ray, white, four, three lima."

"_Okay, roger that,"_ Nate replied.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Saturday 21st June 1997**

"Alright, listen in!" Nate called out as he strode into Red Team's prefab hangar. "I know you lot have only just had your brekky, but we're scrambling right fucking now. I want us on the road in thirty minutes. Anyone on MOE positions needs full kit; everyone takes fast-roping gear."

"Why's thaat?" Adi asked. "We got a fastball orr something?"

"No, we've got a new playground, for this weekend only," said Nate. "There's a couple of old council blocks of flats in Southampton scheduled for demolition on Wednesday: Forwood's pulled some strings, and the local plods have sealed off the area for us to practice explosive entry. We've got them for today and tomorrow: then we swap over with Blue Team."

"Fookin' nice one," Croc growled approvingly.

"Let's blow all the doors off," Deano suggested. "Blue Team'll love that: they will, they'll love it."

"Now, Faith," Nate continued, turning to where the Slayer had been having a chat with Adi, Deano, Newton and Xander, "are you and Green Team interested?"

Faith grinned. "Just try and stop us."

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Southampton, Hampshire, England**

The two tower blocks loomed, silhouetted black against the sky, one taller than the other by a dozen storeys or so: up close, their walls were a dull and depressing concrete-grey. Large floor-to-ceiling windows were scattered almost at random across every floor, the double glazing blown and the filthy glass constantly rattling in the frames.

In the taller tower, one of the windows up on the twenty-fifth floor smashed. Shards of glass showered down onto the empty street below, glittering for a brief instant in the mid-morning sunlight as they tumbled end over end.

Faith stepped up to the now-empty window frame and lifted something that looked like a very large spear gun to her shoulder, aimed, and pulled the trigger. Trailing a length of inch-thick cable behind it, a harpoon hissed across the street and buried itself in the wall of the other tower's rooftop fire exit, over ten feet below Faith's firing position.

Faith secured her end of the cable to a naked I-beam, then gave Newton a nod. Newton hooked first one bulky duffle bag to the cable, then a second, and sent them across the emptiness.

A moment later, Faith followed suit, suspended from two wheeled devices hooked over the line: she clung to the handles of one device, while the second was pinned between and beneath her knees. Newton was right behind her, identically supported.

The trip across the street took them less than two seconds. Gratefully dropping to the shorter tower's roof, Faith snatched up one of the duffles and ran across to the far side of the rooftop, Newton following close behind her with the other bag. Unzipping her duffle, Faith pulled out a coil of black climbing rope and a shaped explosive charge, a disc about three feet wide and four inches thick.

Securing one end of her rope to a sturdy anchor point and attaching it to her abseiling harness, Faith slung the shaped charge from her webbing and glanced over to check that Newton was similarly ready. Receiving a nod, she kicked off the roof and slid down the rope, her booted feet 'walking' four storeys down the wall to a point in between the tenth and eleventh floor.

Keeping firm hold of the rope with her left hand, her right reached around to grab the charge and affix it to the wall, then yanked off the detonator that was clipped to the side of the charge, letting the long cables connecting the two dangle freely in the breeze. Faith and Newton exchanged another glance, each checking the other was good to go. Satisfied, they 'walked' sideways, playing out more rope as they went, until each was at least a safe half-dozen yards from the charges.

"I have control," Faith announced into her throat mic. "Stand by… stand by… _GO!"_

Her thumb mashed down on the detonator's button.

The building shook as the charges simultaneously blasted a pair of holes into the concrete between the two floors, opening a gap that spanned the bottom of the eleventh floor and the ceiling of the tenth. Discarding the now-useless detonator, Faith kicked off from the wall and swung to her left, holding her breath…

…And then she was flying feet-first in through the hole, sliding down the rope, into the tenth floor; the Slayer released her grip on the rope and snatched her MP5 from its sling, aiming and squeezing the trigger even as her feet hit the floor to neatly double-tap the head of a 'terrorist' figure: a pair of watermelons promptly exploded as Newton hit the floor next to Faith, his own weapon up and ready.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Monday 23rd June 1997**

"We'll go over a couple of heavy weapons, some of our specialist kit, and vehicles today," Newton announced, leading the way into the base's open-air firing range.

"Hey, this looks familiar," Faith noted, immediately heading over to a pair of identical machineguns that had been set up on display.

"Not surprised," Newton agreed. "You've got one very similar back in the 'Dale. That is the general-purpose machinegun, or GPMG – more popularly known as the 'jimpy' for short."

"What's the difference between this one an' our one?" Faith asked, looking them over.

"Well, this one was built under license in the UK; your one was built under license in the US, and the design's originally Belgian," Newton explained. "The US military call their version the 'M240'."

Faith nodded. "Jimpy's quicker, though… think I'll stick with that."

"Fair enough. Now, you can set a jimpy up on a tripod or vehicle mount to get the most effective range out of it: alternatively, you can use it in a light role, like a rifle, firing from either the shoulder or the hip, or using the bipod to brace it against things like walls, vehicles, the ground, a mate's back, and so on. It's a bit on the heavy side for us mere mortals to fire from the shoulder or the hip – we can do either, we just get knackered out a lot quicker," Newton noted, grinning, "but you two won't have any aggro on that score."

"I guess we'll be doing the 'light role' thing first, then, seein' how they ain't on tripods?" Faith asked.

"I figured you'd want to give it a go," said Newton.

Faith grinned. "Damn right," she agreed, picking up one of the jimpies. "Now: how'ja load this thing?"

**[—]**

"Oh-kay, then… now you're loaded, we're ready to rock and roll," Newton said cheerfully a few minutes later. "The trick is, you need to lean into the recoil, keep the gat balanced, and watch for the tracers so's you can adjust the fall of shot. Fancy giving that a go?"

Faith grinned as she slid on her ear defenders and picked up her jimpy. "Oh, _yeah!"_

Newton chuckled as he followed suit, balancing his weapon on his hip and taking aim at a row of plywood targets on the range. Exchanging glances with Faith, he nodded, then turned away: half a second later, the jimpies opened up simultaneously.

**[—]**

With plastic covers affixed to either end, the rocket launcher – a LAW 80 – looked like a giant barbell at first glance.

Quickly flipping off the covers, Faith pulled the weapon tube to its fully extended firing position. With a flick of her wrist, she released the catch on the flip-up sight reticule and hefted the weapon casually onto her right shoulder, careful not to dislodge her ear defenders.

Sinking down onto one knee and taking up a more sturdy firing position, Faith's right hand slipped around the launcher's moulded plastic pistol grip, while her left braced the weight of the weapon under the tube. The Slayer settled the sight picture on the centre of the target two hundred yards or so away, which was built to resemble the profile of a frost giant, and seated the weapon securely into position so as to best absorb the weapon's savage recoil.

Newton patted her on the head twice, then stood off to one side at a safe distance next to Xander.

Not taking her eye off the sight picture of the target, Faith flicked off the LAW 80's safety catch.

"Duck an' cover! Rocket out!" she shouted, then braced himself and pulled the trigger. With a roar and a kick in the shoulder like that from an angry donkey, the missile leapt from the launcher and flashed across the distance to its target; red-hot exhaust geysered forth from the rear of the launch tube. When the rocket had reached a distance of fifty feet from the launcher, the warhead in the nose armed itself, before slamming into the target's 'chest'.

The high explosive charge detonated, ripping open the 'chest' of the target, flinging scraps of burning plywood every which way. For a moment, what was left of the target remained upright, wobbling back and forth a little spewing smoke as it caught fire, before the target toppled slowly over backward to the ground.

A pair of range wardens jogged down the lane, fire extinguishers in hand.

Flicking the safety catch back on, Faith lowered the launcher, trembling a little in exhilaration. Steam coiled from the both ends of the launch tube as the metal slowly cooled again.

Newton removed her ear defenders for her. "Nice going – you remembered to safe the spotting rifle," he said, nodding toward the launch tube.

"Uh… izzat a good hit?" Faith asked, indicating the target. The range wardens had reached the gently burning wreck, and had started liberally foaming it down: within a minute or two, the little blaze had been completely smothered.

"Yeah, that's pretty well banjaxed," Newton chuckled.

"Niiiice…" Faith drawled.

**[—]**

"This is one of my personal favourite subjects: Specialist Ammunition 101," Newton said, flipping open the lid of an ammo crate. "First, the Vampbuster – cooked up especially at Porton Down," he continued, selecting a bullet and holding it out.

Faith nodded appreciatively. "I guess those are pretty essential, huh?"

"Understatement of the Year. The next two 'exotic rounds' have specialist metal tips – gold and silver," Newton continued, picking out a couple more cartridges.

"I'm guessin' the silver rounds are for werewolves?"

"Yeah, and for some species of demons – Vargspans, Liechs, and a few others."

"Okay. What about the gold rounds, though, what demons are they for?"

"None: they're for Silverware scenarios."

Faith snapped her fingers. "Damn, I forgot about them…"

"No worries: there's a lot of this stuff to remember, everyone forgets bits of it. Next up, armour-piercing rounds – nowhere near as exotic, these are an off-the-shelf buy, seems like every army on the planet's got some nowadays. However, we get through way more of those than we would if we only ever had to fight other humans.

"We buy all of the specialist ammo in nine-mill, five fifty-six mill, and seven-six-two long cartridges: limited funding at work, you see," Newton added apologetically. "Now, we can keep you two supplied with those cartridges, no trouble; but we just haven't got the cash to start churning out forty-five rounds for your HK23s."

Faith shook her head. "That's cool, don't worry about it," she assured him, then pointed at another open ammo crate. "What can ya tell me 'bout the rockets?"

"They're for the Charlie Gee – sorry, the Carl Gustav anti-tank missile launcher," Newton explained, indicating what appeared to be a large drainpipe on a bipod. "Disposable LAWs – light anti-tank rockets – are getting pretty popular nowadays 'cause they're so light and small: the catch is, they only come in one variety or another, so we've kept all our old Charlie Gees to give ourselves a bit of flexibility.

"On top of all the regular ammo – high-explosive, armour-piercing, smoke, and so on – a Charlie Gee can fire titanium, silver or gold flechette rounds, or a monster flashbang round. It's tried, tested, simple, sturdy, and if all else fails then the launcher's a pretty good blunt instrument: you could pan someone's head right in with that thing, easy."

"How good's the 'monster flashbang'?"

"Good enough to leave a vampire completely blind and deaf."

Faith's eyebrows rose. "Izzat a permanent thing, or temporary, or what?" she asked, impressed and intrigued.

"No idea: we always slot the little scrotes first chance we get. Standing orders, you see."

"Haven't you guys ever felt curious, tried to find out?"

Newton snorted in amusement. "We ain't stupid enough to play Frankenstein," he confidently replied. "I admit, I once met a boffin up at Porton who might just be nutty enough to _fancy_ trying, but… well, we just haven't got the kind of money needed for something like that, know what I mean?"

Faith grinned. "Yeah, I gotcha."

"For example, back in the Cold War, the Ivans had this program where they tried to graft demon body parts onto human soldiers – they wanted to give their lads a serious edge, you know? It was relatively small-scale stuff, they never got it to work, and it only ran for the one year before it got axed – do you know how much that cost?"

"Surprise me."

"Close on this country's entire annual defence budget at the time."

Faith let out a low whistle. "Yeah, you guys _really_ ain't doin' that anytime soon… Hey, has anyone else tried something like that?"

"Well, the Nazis had a super soldier program in World War Two – real Captain America-type stuff," Newton continued. "In two years, they spent more on that than we did on the entire RAF during the whole war – they had to flog off tons of gold bullion to afford it. One of your – er – _predecessors_, Slayer Felicity Ferris? She was part of a special task force that Churchill sent in to shut the bastards down. That was in late 1940, just a couple of months after the Battle of Britain."

"She make it back?"

Newton nodded. "Yeah, she got back again, and her Watcher… most of the others didn't, though."

"Did the Nazis pull it off – make a super soldier?"

"Sort of – one bloke turned into some kind of brain-dead bulletproof monster the size of a tank and went on a rampage; the second finished up about as fast and strong as a Slayer. Slayer Felicity slotted them both in the end, and the task force blew up the lab – notes, samples, serum, the whole lot was destroyed. Slotted all the scientists, too."

Faith nodded approvingly. _"Good,"_ she growled. "Some shit shouldn't be messed with."

"Damn right," Newton agreed. "Now, last but not least, for your consideration…" he opened a case, and withdrew what appeared to be an audiocassette tape recorder, complete with a microphone on a long cord. "…a short-range ultra-high-frequency radio transmitter: broadcasts on the megahertz wavelengths. The effective range is only eight feet, though, so it's pretty limited – best used as an ambush weapon."

"That's for Airfix cases, right?"

"Yeah, that's what it was originally designed for, but it also works a treat on demons with really sensitive hearing."

"Nice."

**[—]**

"If there's one thing that I've learned from hanging around with you two, reading the files on Slayers, and watching both 'Terminator' films, then it's this: Slayers and Terminators like to have a good set of wheels," Newton said as he led the way over to an old prefab aircraft hangar.

Faith nodded in agreement. "Can't argue with that."

"Now, I don't know if you'll think this is classy, but it _does_ provide a nice edge in a fight," Newton continued as he pushed open the heavy sliding door. "What do you two think?" So saying, he hit a switch near the door: overhead lights promptly flickered into life to illuminate the hangar's contents.

Faith grinned. "Me _like…"_ she purred.

Painted matt black, the military Land Rover Defender had had its windscreen, doors and roof completely removed. A pair of jimpies were mounted atop the roll bar, and a third was fitted in front of the passenger seat. A spare tyre was fitted on either side of the chassis, and a powered winch had been attached to the front bumper.

"Most of our Lannies are used for desert warfare," said Newton. "However, we've also got a small number reserved for urban and mainland ops involving supernatural and extraterrestrial threats: they don't have the Pink Panther paint jobs, sand channels and other kit."

Xander had clambered up into the Land Rover, which visibly dipped on its suspension under his weight. Starting up the engine and gunning it, he listened intently for a few seconds before switching it off. Turning his attention to the bonnet-mounted jimpy, he examined the weapon carefully before climbing under the roll bar into the back of the vehicle. Standing up, he scrutinised the twin jimpies, and finally turned to Faith. "Excellent," he announced.

Faith shrugged. "Works fer me."

Newton nodded. "I'll sign it out, then, if you two want to play with it."

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Wednesday 25th June 1997**

**British airspace / RAF Foulsham, Norfolk, England**

Flying high, an RAF Hercules cargo aeroplane is noisy but – barring thermals – fairly level in flight. Low and wave-hopping as the aircraft approached the coastline below the radar, it was like being in a blender. The airframe rattled and the aircraft bucked and shuddered, picking up every variation in the air currents.

Two gunned-up Land Rovers were in the cargo bay along with a dozen figures wearing Embassy Black Tie. Faith stood upright in the lead Lannie, clinging to the roll bar-mounted twin jimpies for support: Newton was at the wheel; and Xander sat in the front passenger seat, which had another jimpy mounted on the vehicle's bonnet.

A red light came on up above the tailgate. Newton and the driver of the other Land Rover promptly started up and gunned their vehicles' engines, ignoring the way this filled the compartment with smoke. The plane picked up speed, a sudden burst of power to take them in to the ground. The tailgate started to drop, filling the cargo bay with a deafening roar of wind that swirled the smoke from the Lannies' exhausts all over the place. It was so low that the thrum of the wheels spinning in the slipstream followed within seconds.

A few seconds later, the plane's tyres hit the tarmac with a screech. A digital speedometer glowed bright luminous green above the tailgate, displaying **'100'**.

The Herk slammed on the air brakes and the speedometer began to drop: **'90'**

Faith licked her lips under her respirator, her heart starting to race in excited anticipation.

'**70'**

'_Nearly there!'_ Faith thought. _'Nearly there…!'_

'**50'**

Still the tailgate continued to drop: its end was now barely a few feet off the tarmac.

'**40'** … **'35'**

Newton immediately gunned his engine and headed out, screaming down the ramp past the troopers who'd fight on foot: they were hanging onto their straps for dear life, fighting against the g-forces of the braking Herk, waiting for the moment that would ease and they could run for the open air. Faith clung gamely to the twin jimpies, dimly aware that the second Lannie was right behind them. _'Newton said this base got closed down right after World War Two,'_ she thought, taking in the sight of the rundown and dilapidated buildings. _'Sure looks it…'_

Faith's gaze alighted on her targets. She opened fire half a heartbeat later, spraying twin streams of glittering tracer rounds into the night.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Thursday 26th June 1997**

**Stirling Lines, Hereford, England**

**22nd Special Air Service Regimental Headquarters**

"Captain Lucy Penrose," the baby-faced young brunette woman introduced herself as Faith, Xander and Newton entered her office. "Intelligence Corps—"

Newton loudly coughed, muttered "Green Slime," then coughed again.

Lucy rolled her eyes good-naturedly, "—and originally from the Coven," she finished.

Faith nodded as she shook the older woman's hand. "Faith," she said, then indicated the Terminator at her side. "This is Xander."

Lucy's smile widened. "Your reputations precede you," she quipped. "I understand you want to be able to train without your powers, Faith?"

Faith nodded again. "Yeah. I heard 'bout that Cruciamentum thing the Council runs, an' I really don't like the idea of losin' my powers fer a few days or so, y'know? But I figure, if the Council knows how t' take my powers, then it ain't unreasonable t' expect that maybe summa the bad guys might figure out that li'l trick fer themselves one day. If it does, an' I don't know how t' deal with somethin' like that, then I'm screwed – an' not in a good way, know what I mean?"

"Yes, actually and there's a very simple option that should suit your needs," said Lucy. "If you'll follow me to the gym? I'll explain on the way."

"You guys got some special exercise machines or somethin'?" Faith asked as they made their way through the admin building.

Lucy shook her head. "No, it's actually the gym itself – when it was built back in the Seventies, several members of the Coven turned it into a magical null zone, so that magical beings could train and exercise without being able to access their magic-related abilities."

Faith blinked. "What's gonna happen?"

"In short, when you enter the gymnasium, you'll essentially 'leave your powers at the door'," said Lucy. "When you leave the gym again, you'll instantly get them back."

"Now that's more _like_ it!" Faith said, grinning.

"Yes, it's dead handy," Lucy agreed, pushing open a pair of double doors and heading out into a small quadrangle.

"How does it work, then?"

Lucy bit her lip. "Umm… how to put this? It's like… your powers won't be taken away from you, it's more like they'll be a-a radio transmission that gets temporarily jammed: it's still there, you just can't understand it, can't use it, until the jamming stops again. Does that help?"

"Yeah, that'll do nicely, thanks," Faith agreed. "Hey, uh… if Tee goes in there, will it mess him up at all, or turn him human again?"

Lucy shook her head. "Terminator Xander is a technological being, not a magical one, and a transformation spell like the one he underwent would be completely permanent in nature. He won't notice any difference."

"Alright, cool."

The little party paused on the steps outside the gymnasium.

"Remember: when you enter this building, your body will revert to being that of a normal fifteen-year-old girl," Lucy warned. "You'll get tired out a lot quicker, and you'll gain weight much easier if you eat anything in there. You won't have any fancy reflexes or instincts, and your senses will degrade back to their original capabilities. For the first few minutes inside, you may well feel like you're deaf and blind; you might lose your balance, or even full inner ear functions."

Faith frowned. "Inner ear… that's the thing that makes you puke if you lose control of it, right?"

Lucy nodded. "Yep. Anyway, the important thing is not to overdo it in there – don't wait until you collapse in exhaustion to come outside. Take little steps: you can always come back a bit later."

Faith blew out a deep breath. "Oooh-kay, then… here goes…"

So saying, she reached out to push open the door, then stepped inside.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Saturday 28th June 1997**

Clad in British Army barrack dress of boots, camouflage trousers and dark green woolly jumper, Tom Wilson bore a captain's pips on his woolly-pully's shoulder boards, and his Intelligence Corps beret sat stop his desk. Short, slim and in his early forties, he had a boyish face that still contrived to look cheerful despite being covered in hideous scars, and his right arm ended in a three-clawed pale grey prosthetic hand. A glass eye filled his left eye socket.

"So, Tom… just how many special forces units do you guys have, exactly?" Faith asked, slouching comfortably in one of the office's seats.

"Technically, we've got four," Wilson replied. "That includes the Regiment, the Shakyboats, Det, and Mob – the Joint Mobile Battle Group; they operate a bunch of armoured vehicles to support our operations. Mostly light tanks, but they've got some other fancy toys like rocket artillery vehicles, too."

"Right, right… what's the deal with Det, whadda they do?"

"They're a plain clothes surveillance unit – they're trained to shoot their way out of trouble if they have to, but they're not supposed to be used offensively. They quite small, and mostly operate in Northern Ireland."

"An' all four units are clued in about vampires an' magic an' aliens, right?"

"That's it. There's another unit outside DSF control who know about the reality of paranormal threats," Wilson added. "The Fleet Protection Group, or FPG: they're a Royal Marine unit."

"How come?"

"Because their job – their _only_ job – is to protect our nuclear arsenal."

"_Ah._ That makes sense," Faith said, nodding thoughtfully, then chewed her lip. "You said 'technically', earlier…" she mused aloud.

"Yes, there's a bunch of other units that are… well, we call them 'pocket special forces' or 'PSF' units," Wilson admitted. "They're not clued in about paranormal threats, and they aren't under the DSF's command. Most of those units are fairly small – usually around fifty to sixty bods each, sometimes less, hence the nickname – and often specialised in some way."

"Such as…?" Faith asked, intrigued.

Wilson shrugged, his prosthetic hand hissing open and snapping shut again in response to his unconscious command. "Let's see… the Royal Artillery has an STA battery – that stands for 'Surveillance and Target Acquisition'," he explained before Faith could ask the obvious question. "The Paras have a Pathfinder Platoon in each of their three battalions; and the Royal Engineers have the 103rd Field Survey Squadron.

"Then there's the Royal Navy: they operate the Maritime Recovery Unit – a couple of dozen divers trained to do things like recover equipment, munitions or trapped personnel deep underwater. And the RAF Regiment has 2302 Flight – their main party trick's directing air strikes.

"The Royal Marines have got three PSF units. 148 Commando Forward Observation Battery specialise in directing naval bombardments against land targets; the Mountain and Arctic Warfare Cadre are instructors in the arts of mountaineering, skiing, sniping and so on; and then there's the newest of the bunch, the Strategic Intelligence and Reconnaissance Troop, or 'SIRET' for short.

"Last but not least, there's the CTRG, or Close Target Reconnaissance Group. They're another Army unit, and are a lot larger than the other PSF units: it's typical for them to have around three hundred soldiers on-strength."

"Really? Why's that?"

"Not counting the Paras – who have their Pathfinder Platoons – or the Gurkhas, we've got thirty-six infantry battalions just now, with each battalion consisting of around six hundred or more soldiers, depending on their role. Each battalion has a special section – usually six to twelve soldiers – who get sent to Recce Group. Recce Group and SIRET are fairly similar in many ways: their members are all fairly stealthy, good shots, and have all proven themselves under fire."

"Sounds like they're kind of a 'lite' version of the Regiment an' the Shakyboats," Faith noted.

Wilson nodded. "Spot on," he told her. "They skip a lot of our fancier training, so they cost nowhere near as much to run, and they don't have a Darwinian program like our Selection to go through to get chosen. They're regular soldiers and Marines who go off on a few extra training courses, and get access to a wider range of kit and weapons on ops.

"They're not as versatile as the regular DSF units, they're not trained parachutists like the Pathfinders, and god knows they get next to no publicity. But they're good fighters, and sometimes that's all a job really needs. The main difference between the two is that SIRET are better at amphibious and maritime ops than Recce Group."

"But then, you'd kind of expect that, right?" Faith said with a small grin.

"Right," Wilson agreed, returning the grin.

"So how come they don't get clued in 'bout this stuff?"

"No particular reason – it started out as just a way of minimising the number of people 'in the know' and keeping a lid on it all. But hopefully that'll change fairly soon – frankly, with all the extra hotspots these days, we're overstretched."

"Right, got it."

"Now, what else do you want to know?"

Faith glanced down at her notepad. "Uh, lessee… oh, yeah, I got a couple questions about weapons?"

"Fire away – just not literally," Wilson quickly amended, grinning.

Faith smirked. "Heh-heh… well, I was kinna wondering why you guys don't seem to have any flamethrowers?" she asked. "All I know 'bout 'em comes from movies, but I figured they might be pretty handy fer huntin' vamps…"

"Human-portable flamethrowers just too user-unfriendly," said Wilson. "They've got a rather nasty habit of blowing up and incinerating the operator. Mob has a couple of FV 432s fitted out with flamethrowers, though: the chassis are big enough to fit plenty of safety cut-outs, coolant feeds, and so on – there's still _a_ risk, but it's smaller."

"Uh… FV 432s?"

"Armoured personnel carrier from the Fifties – essentially a big armour-plated box on caterpillar tracks. Usually fitted with a jimpy."

"Gotcha." Faith jotted a quick note on her pad. "Um… how 'bout miniguns? Like the one Arnie uses in one a' the Terminator movies?"

Wilson shook his head. "The Green Berets tried to develop something like that in the Vietnam War, but they always found the recoil was far too powerful: most of the men who tried to use the prototypes ended up with horrible spinal injuries. You won't find a single armaments firm on the planet that manufactures something like that, I'm afraid. And the weapon used in that film needed big bulky batteries to power it; they were just kept hidden out of the camera's field of vision whenever it was in use."

He paused, frowning. "Mind you…" he mused aloud, "…back before my, ah… _accident_… I did hear some rumours that there was an American: Blaine, I think – he was part of a team of ex-US special forces types, a mercenary search-and-rescue team – who built something like that… Mind you, he was also reputed to have been abusing steroids, so that might explain how he could handle the recoil…"

"I don't s'pose he might be willin' t' accept a commission or somethin', t' build another one?" Faith suggested. "I'm gettin' pretty good with a jimpy; an' Tee's twice as strong as I am, so _he_ sure ain't gonna have trouble with the recoil from somethin' like that."

Wilson shrugged. "The last I heard, Blaine and his team disappeared in the jungles of Val Verde, about ten years ago, so he might well be dead by now… But if he _does_ turn out to be alive after all, then it couldn't hurt for you two to ask him."

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Sunday 29th June 1997**

The Nissen Hut's door squeaked as it was pushed open.

"You Quentin Travers?"

Blinking as he entered the dim light of the building that served as the regiment's chapel, Travers focused on the sight before him.

Faith, dressed in Embassy Black Tie, her head bare, sat in one battered old folding chair with her feet up in another, a mug of steaming sergeant major's tea in her hand.

"I am," Travers agreed.

"Help yourself," Faith suggested, inclining her head towards the drinks table. "Pour one out an' take a load off – I'm guessin' you could use a break after a trip like that. Teleportation spells really take it outta ya."

Travers favoured the Slayer with a polite nod. "Thank you."

Faith took a deep and noisy slurp from her mug as she watched Travers pour himself a cup of coffee, then instinctively dusted off a nearby seat and sat down. Slayer and Watcher alike regarded each other in a long moment of silence broken only by the sounds of their drinking, and a short-lived burst of gunfire from the Killing House complex.

Lowering his half-empty mug, Travers sighed in satisfaction. "You know… when I was just starting my training as a Watcher, my mother gave me a piece of advice," he said in a thoughtful tone of voice. "She told me to always remember that Slayers never quite look the way you imagine they will… and that holds true of you, Slayer Faith."

"Oh, yeah?" Faith inquisitively quirked an eyebrow. "Howzzat?"

"Well for one thing, I half-expected you to be lugging a great big sword around everywhere."

Faith's lips formed a smile and she gave a rich, smoky chuckle. Travers responded with a small but sincere smile of his own.

"That big pig-sticker does come in real handy," Faith conceded. "It sure did fer that M'Kachen an' Kakistos but good. Problem is, it's bigger'n _I_ am, an' it ain't all that easy fer me to carry when I ain't usin' it fer fighting. So: do you have an answer fer me?"

Travers blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"The question I asked Johnny on the 'plane, 'bout the Cruciamentum: he said he'd pass it on to you. What's it all about?"

Travers sighed. "I honestly don't know."

Faith slowly nodded. "Then why keep it goin'?"

Travers carefully considered his reply. "There's a set of mental exercises that Watchers and Slayers typically undertake on a regular basis," he said.

Faith raised her eyebrows in surprise at his response, but otherwise her only reaction was to take another slurp of her drink.

"For nearly a millennia, this practice was continued even though no Watcher could say for absolute certainty what the purpose of those exercises actually _was,"_ Travers continued. "Then, sometime in the mid-eighteenth century, an extremely powerful dark mage cast a mind control spell upon a Slayer, Slayer Yi… but the spell didn't work on her: it had successfully worked on plenty of other people, yet it couldn't affect her. Realising this, Slayer Yi played along until she discovered the mage's weakness – at which point she killed him."

Faith raised her mug in flippant salute. "Good fer her."

"Quite," Travers agreed. "The Council investigated the incident, and with aid from the Coven determined that the exercises had built defences that protected Slayer Yi's mind from the spell: without them, she would have been reduced to a docile slave."

"So you figure there's gotta be just as good a reason fer the Cruciamentum?"

"Slayer Faith, no Slayer has ever died during the Cruciamentum," said Travers. "So yes… I do suspect there _is_ a worthwhile reason for it."

"Worth a Slayer feelin' like her Watcher, one of her closest allies – so damn close they might as well be family – has betrayed her, an' strung her out to dry?" Faith calmly asked.

Travers sighed again, looking faintly apologetic. "So I believe."

"You _really_ think breakin' a trust like that's a good idea?"

"Ordinarily, no: but for the practice to have lasted for so long that we lost all the original records of its origins during the Alexandria Fire—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa – the what now?"

"The fire that destroyed the Great Library of Alexandria several millennia ago," Travers elaborated. "It was the Council's headquarters up until then."

Faith let out a low whistle. "Colour me impressed… you guys sure got some style," she said admiringly.

"Our predecessors did, certainly… our current headquarters is rather less impressive," Travers admitted. "But getting back on-topic… the Cruciamentum is incredibly old, so old that we don't even know for certain exactly when it was introduced."

"Yeah, well, I don't see the point, m'self: I'm already trainin' in a magical null zone on a regular basis, gettin' usedta fightin' without my powers if I need to," said Faith. "So the whole 'no powers' part of the Cruciamentum ain't useful in my case… Do ya have any theories 'bout what the point of the Cruciamentum is?"

Travers slowly nodded. "I believe it is connected to a Slayer's self-confidence."

"Come again?"

"Do you know how many Slayers have prevented an apocalypse, Slayer Faith?"

Faith shrugged. "I know that Buffy handled three, an' Kendra had two – three if ya count the Acathla thing; she showed up fer the fight, not her fault that Drusilla bitch killed her 'fore Angelus opened the freakin' statue up – an' I've had one…"

"Well, including yourself and Slayers Buffy and Kendra, only nine Slayers are recorded in all the Council's history as having accomplished such a feat. That includes the very first Slayer ever to exist, Slayer Sineya. And while not a form of supernatural apocalypse, five Slayers helped to prevent aliens from conquering or destroying this planet between the early Sixties and 1980, when the Alliance broke apart."

Faith's eyebrows rose almost to her hairline. "Holy shit," she muttered.

"Most Slayers never have to fight as you have done – as you have done _repeatedly,_ in fact," Travers continued. "Most Slayers only ever fight 'ordinary' vampires and demons, not the likes of the Scourge of Europe, Kakistos, or the Blood Pact, and certainly not M'Kachen demons, special operatives from Wolfram & Hart, or Tarakan assassins."

"Oh-kaaay… you're kinda givin' my ego a boost, which is pretty nice, but I ain't sure what your point is?"

"My point is _this_, Slayer Faith: most Slayers never get such a 'boost' to their egos, to their sense of self-esteem; they lack accomplishments as impressive as your own that they can look back upon with pride. I have had the privilege to meet six Slayers in my lifetime – yourself included – and I was the Watcher of Slayer Senfina nearly twenty-five years ago.

"Aside from you, one thing they all had in common was that by the time they reached their late teens, they were experiencing considerable self-doubt. They'd read or heard stories about past Slayers who _had_ done great things like prevent an apocalypse, or lured a hell goddess to the peak of a volcano minutes before it erupted; Slayers who'd worked with the SAS to fight off an alien invasion, or borrowed a tank from the Army to kill a temporally-misplaced Allosaurus that was rampaging through Hyde Park.

"By contrast, all _they_ had ever done was fight some ordinary vampires; and not many of them, either. On average, a Slayer typically encountered two or three vampires each week. They all worried that the only strength they possessed was their power as a Slayer; that without the power, without the aid of their Watcher, they would be nothing, incapable of fighting against vampires and other threats."

"So you think the Cruciamentum's s'posed ta convince Slayers that there's more to 'em than their powers?" Faith guessed. "Make 'em feel more confident an' shit?"

"I doubt the Cruciamentum was meant to affect their regularity," Travers began, a small smile almost completely hidden by his moustache, "but yes, I do believe it is meant to show Slayers that they are _people_ and not merely vessels for a set of metahuman abilities; and that their own natural cleverness and cunning are every bit as invaluable as the power of the Slayer in fighting the war against the forces of darkness."

"Did you put Senfina through the Cruciamentum?"

Travers nodded. "She passed with flying colours," he said, his tone laced with barely-concealed pride.

"An' how were things between you afterwards?"

Travers stared off into space, his gaze unfocused, and was silent for a long minute that seemed to drag on into a small eternity. "Senfina was… conflicted," he finally said. "She exulted – very noisily and at great length – over having Slain the vampire she'd fought, and her doubts vanished completely; her self-confidence was stronger than it had ever been at any point in her whole life…

"But she was also confused by my actions. She asked me to explain why I'd done what I did: she wasn't angry with me, or upset… she just wanted to understand."

"What'd you tell her?"

Travers met Faith's gaze again. "Everything that I have just told you, Slayer Faith," he replied. "What is known for certain fact, and my theory about the Cruciamentum."

"An' how'd she take that?"

"Quite well," said Travers. "She mulled it over for a few days, then told me she thought I might be onto something."

"An' she still trusted you after that?"

Travers nodded. "If anything, I think our… bond, as Slayer and Watcher, grew a little stronger after Senfina's Cruciamentum."

Faith sighed. "Look… okay, now I get why you think it's a good idea ta keep the Cruciamentum goin'," she said. "But I still ain't comfortable with the idea of goin' through that myself, awright? You think it's good stuff 'cause a' the whole 'boosting self-confidence' angle; but the thing that really sticks with me is the 'betrayal of trust' side a' things.

"Trust's a _really_ big deal fer me: I don't give it that easy, an' anyone betrays it? They ain't _never_ gonna get it back: can't earn it, can't buy it, can't win it, not from me. An' if the Council wants anythin' ta do with me, then you guys gotta know that if you ever betray my trust, I'm gonna go fucking Terminator on your asses – _literally."_ Faith inclined her head; turning, Travers saw Xander step out of the shadows.

"I see," Travers said quietly. "I take it the rumours concerning your… bodyguard… are true, then."

"Depends. If these rumours say he's a Terminator, then they're right. If they say he's an Autobot or a Mysteron, then they're so frickin' wrong it ain't even funny."

Travers permitted himself a small smile at that. "Slayer Faith… ignoring the Cruciamentum for the moment… would you be willing to work for the Council?"

"No." Faith shook her head. "I don't work 'for' anyone 'cept me – _however—"_ she cut Travers off, raising her mug for emphasis, "—I _am_ willin' ta work _with_ you guys, just like I'm workin' with the British military. These guys don't go givin' me orders, but I'm plenty-happy ta do them a favour or five so long as they just _ask_ me real nice an' polite-like. Only exception's in combat: if one a' these guys tells me ta duck, then I'll get my sweet fine ass down onna floor so fast you wouldn't believe it.

"So… is that kinda deal acceptable ta you?"

Travers slowly released a deep breath. "To _me_… yes. Usually, a Slayer who refuses to work for the Council does so because they want normal lives, or are corrupted by their power and become as big a menace as the monsters they're supposed to fight – but from what I've heard second-hand, and what I've gathered from your comportment in this interview, I assume that you will continue to… 'fight the good fight' regardless of whether you form ties with the Council or not."

Faith nodded vigorously. "You can take that one to the frickin' _bank_, man."

"Then I _personally_ am amenable to such an arrangement," said Travers. "You've been a Slayer for barely two months, and yet you've accomplished more in these past weeks than nearly any single Slayer in history has done in their entire lifetime. You are truly a worthy heir to your immediate predecessor, Slayer Kendra, and her predecessor, Slayer Buffy… although I must admit, I am _far_ more impressed with your choice of, ah… _companions_ than with Slayer Buffy's."

Faith frowned in concentration while she worked out the meaning of Travers' hitch, then her eyes opened wide. "Err, no, no-no-no-no, Tee an' me ain't like _that!"_ she protested. "I mean, I _love_ the big guy, but I ain't gotta clue if it's, like, a brother-and-sister kinna love, or 'cause he's my all-time best buddy an' the first real friend I've ever had, or-or I wanna have his babies one day… An' I ain't gonna rush things ta find out, neither; I don't wanna screw up the best thing in my life, y'know? An' besides, Tee feels precisely _zero_ emotions right now, he still ain't relearned any a' that stuff yet."

"Affirmative," the Terminator flatly agreed.

"Ah… I _do_ apologise for jumping to conclusions," Travers said hastily, looking a little contrite.

"No problem, it's cool," Faith assured him.

"But my essential point stands: you would be an invaluable and highly capable ally, and your judgement is most commendable," said Travers.

Faith did her best to give him a halfway gracious-looking nod in gratitude at the compliments. "I'm guessin' there's others in the Council who _would_ have a problem with me bein' a free agent, though?"

"Unfortunately, yes," said Travers.

"The, uh… hardliner guys, right? The isolationists or-or conservatives, whatever ya wanna call 'em, like that asshole McIntyre."

"Precisely. I doubt that any of the reformists or my fellow traditionalists would raise objections, and between our two factions we could easily overrule the hardliners… but they could cause serious problems for you, Slayer Faith," Travers warned.

"Problems like 'extra paperwork' problems, or 'life an' death' problems?"

"Both, depending on how determined they are and how much you've gotten onto their bad side."

"Ya really think they could try ta whack me?"

"I know that at least one Hunter Force team is more loyal to one of the leading hardliners than to the Council's mission, and there could be others. Even with allies as formidable and capable as yours, they would only need to get lucky once in order to kill you."

Faith shrugged. "Me an' Tee could take care of 'em for ya," she offered. "With the right intel, we could waste 'em an' make it look like the Provos or some other terrorist assholes did it."

Travers chuckled. "That is extremely tempting, Slayer Faith, and most generous… but I really must decline."

Faith shrugged again. "Your call. Mind you…" she said slowly, "…what if we don't tell 'em what's goin' on?"

Travers frowned in bemusement. "I'm sorry, but I don't quite follow you."

"I'm gonna be spending mosta my time either here or on the Sunnydale Hellmouth – least, unless we find a way to shut the damn Hellmouth down fer keeps – right? So, how likely is it that any member of the Inner Council's ever gonna visit Sunnydale?"

"The odds are slim, to say the least," Travers conceded.

"An' the Regiment'll kill any Watcher who shows up here without gettin' their okay first. So if a Watcher stationed in the 'Dale reports I'm workin' for the Council, would they believe it?"

Travers slowly nodded. "Probably, yes. You're suggesting we deceive them?"

"Sure: why not? It makes you look good, it makes them look weak, an' I get ta ignore the worthless sorry sons-a'-bitches. You get somethin' out of it, I get somethin' out of it: we bad, they sad; we rock, they suck."

Travers stared at her blankly for a few seconds. "If I understand your gist correctly… then that does sound like a fair exchange. And I'm fairly sure that Rupert would go along with it, too."

"'Rupert'?" Faith asked.

"Doctor Giles."

"Ah, gotcha. Suits me – guy's worked with two Slayers before me, an' he oughta know the 'Dale Hellmouth pretty well by now. Knows the Scoobies, too."

Travers frowned. "Do you really intend to endanger those civilians as Slayer Buffy did, by dragging them into this war?"

Faith calmly shook her head. "Look, man, livin' on top a Hellmouth is dangerous, it don't matter if ya know what goes bump in the night or not. Stayin' alive's a numbers game, a craps shoot – any day or any night could be the one you punch out.

"An' I ain't forcing no one ta fight. Four of those guys – Wolverine an' the Brain Trust Squad – hunted vamps fer a fortnight between Buffy goin' on the lam an' me 'n' Tee turnin' up, an' they did pretty well fer themselves – hell, they stopped the Pact from kickin' off an apocalypse. Does the Council ever recruit folks who ain't completely human ta become Watchers?"

Travers nodded. "Erm, yes, there's quite a few… we've got two lycanthropes and five human-demon hybrids working as Watchers just now, and one of the former's on the Inner Council."

"Then you might wanna think about maybe hiring Wolverine – Oz – one day," said Faith. "That guy held the group together the second week; turned out t' be a damn good leader too. He's a real quiet an' real deep kinna guy; he'd prolly make a good Watcher, 'side from his three wolfy nights a' the month."

"Ah, you're referring to Mr Osbourne…" Travers mused. "I wasn't aware he had such leadership potential."

"Might have somethin' ta do with him only stepping up like that _after_ Doc Giles got hospitalised an' in no condition ta go writing reports," Faith dryly suggested.

Travers gave her a small smile. "Yes, that _would_ explain it. What about the, ah, 'Brain Trust Squad' as you referred to them? Would you recommend hiring them, too?"

"You can try, an' I know they'd be real useful ta you guys, but I wouldn't hold my breath on them takin' the jobs," Faith replied.

"Why not?"

"'Cause they're kinda goin' inta business," said Faith. "Defence contractors: the brass are interested in summa their inventions, like the rocket packs an' freeze ray gun – I heard the RAF wants a truck-mounted freeze ray ta use as fire-fighting equipment on their airbases."

"_Ah…_ I see your point: I doubt we could tempt them away from profitable careers like that," Travers conceded.

"Me neither," Faith agreed. "If ya get on their good side, they might give you a couple free samples or somethin', an' they might agree ta do some consulting work, stuff like that… but full-time? Nuh-uh."

"I'll remember that," said Travers. "Do they have a group name yet, or will they be working for an existing company?"

"Naw, they've drawn up a partnership, all nice an' legal," Faith told him. "They're callin' their li'l firm 'Llewellyn Technologies'. Strictly R&D an' building prototypes only fer now – they'll either need ta license another company ta handle mass production, or buy a factory of their own."

Travers looked puzzled. "Why 'Llewellyn'? That isn't part of any of their names, is it?"

"After the actor, Desmond Llewellyn – y'know, the dude who plays the gadgets man in the James Bond movies," Faith explained. "Anyhow… my point is? These folks all volunteered. If someone offers me help, then I'm gonna accept – 'less, of course, I think they're gonna try an' screw me over. I ever get any solid proof that's the case, then they're dead meat."

Travers reluctantly nodded. "I'm still not entirely comfortable with this," he warned Faith.

"Try lookin' at it like this," Faith suggested, "if they're workin' with Tee, me, an' these guys? Then they've got a better chance of stayin' alive – it's the whole 'division of labour' thing, y'know?

"They can leave alla the close-up fighting ta me an' Tee; an' the SAS guys can handle mosta the long-range work; so the Scoobs just haveta pick up whatever we miss, an' chances are they'll have both firepower an' weight of numbers on their side. Everybody wins an' goes home that way – well, 'cept fer the bad guys."

Travers slowly nodded again, then finished his coffee and stood up. "Somehow, Slayer Faith, I'm pretty sure that working with you… and your friends and allies… is going to be a very interesting experience."

Faith raised her mug. "Lookin' forward to it, Cue," she drawled.

Setting his mug down on the refreshments table, Travers quirked a small smile at her; then turned, unconsciously straightened his jacket, and walked outside.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**A/N:** This took a lot longer to finish than I originally thought… however, I hope that the double chapters will go some small way to compensating for the long time between updates. I'm currently putting the final touches to Chapter 16 (there's literally just the final scene to write – most of Chapter 16's scenes were cut from Chapter 14 as the latter was growing far too long and unwieldy, and were nearly enough to make up a chapter in their own right) and will have that up within a week or so.

To the best of my knowledge, the following listed units do not exist and have no genuine counterparts in Britain's Armed Forces in real life: the 103rd Field Survey Squadron, Royal Engineers; the Maritime Recovery Unit; 2302 Flight RAF Regiment; SIRET; the Close Target Reconnaissance Group.

I'll be back,

El ;)


	16. Chapter 16

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**No Fate: The Collected Data Files**

**Chapter Sixteen – Always a Little Further Part Four**

**Sunday 29th June 1997**

**Hole 9, Sunnydale Golf Course, Sunnydale, CA**

Attired in his usual golfing outfit, Mayor Richard Wilkins whistled cheerily to himself as he took a firm grip on his club, looking down at the ball sitting on its tee, over to the hole, then back at the ball again. Relaxed, calm, and contented, he was blissfully oblivious to the rest of the world around him. It was bright and sunny outside, with not a single cloud in the clear blue sky, and the day was shaping up to be truly perfect.

Satisfied at last, Wilkins smoothly drew back his club, then whipped it down and forward. The ball went flying high into the air—

—and landed, rolling neatly in the hole.

Wilkins adjusted his tartan golfing cap, looking pleasantly surprised. "Well, gosh—"

A deafening _crack!_ rang out across the otherwise-empty course, and a hole appeared where Wilkins' left eye had been even as a grisly spray of green gore gushed from the back of his head.

A split-second later, glittering emerald green fire exploded from the wounds, the unleashed magical energies boiling forth like a fountain for a few seconds, before the corpse suddenly exploded. A bright actinic flash of light preceded the blast wave; the ground churned like a raging sea, rippling and cracking up to a mile all about the disturbance. A multihued blast of light carved its way upwards through the sky.

When at last the light died away, and the smoke and dust had settled, all that remained of Richard Wilkins – Mayor of Sunnydale, dark mage supreme, and would-be greater demon, the sorcerer who had prepared for nearly a hundred years for his demonic Ascension – was a crater of bare bubbling molten earth that had been scorched black.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Saturday 28th June 1997**

**Initiative Base of Operations Echo Four, Sunnydale, CA**

"You wanted to see me, Director?" Finn asked politely as he entered her office.

Walsh nodded as she looked up from her computer monitor. "Yes – have you finished your report on the British group operating in the town?"

Finn nodded, and held out a file. "I have, Director."

"And what have you found out?" Walsh asked, accepting the file and opening it, scanning its contents. "Numbers, armaments, capabilities…?"

"Uh, well, it looks like their regular strength is going to settle down at a dozen," Finn began. "One of their guys has left town with Hostiles 405 and 516; we _think_ they've gone to England for some kind of training, but there's no solid confirmation on that score, yet, just our take from the SHS library and certain other locations.

"Armaments: we've mostly seen them carrying light small arms so far – carbines, grenade launcher attachments, pistols, a couple of machineguns, some submachine guns for close-in work… most of them are older designs, nothing manufactured more recently than in the early to mid-Eighties, and some date back to the Fifties. All of their weapons seem to be in good repair, though, and apparently they have a special cartridge that can terminate a haemovore with a single headshot under the right circumstances.

"Capabilities: they have a base in town, an old motorcycle factory that closed down in the Seventies. The last owner was killed by Hostile 1 back in April and left no will; didn't have any heirs either. A local realtor picked it up for a steal, but then he couldn't find any developers willing to take it on: when the Brits showed up with a suitcase full of cash, he sold it to them on the spot.

"The Brits have a small pool of vehicles: there's at least two jeeps and a van that we know about. They're making a dent in the local HST population, too; however, fortunately the daily influx of new HSTs is continuing unabated."

"What kind of kill ratios have their patrols reached?"

"They typically terminate a dozen HSTs every night, and often at least that many again during their dawn raids against HST hideouts," said Finn. "Most of those are haemovores, but there's a bunch of others – they've taken out at least one of each of the more hostile strains of HSTs we've monitored in Sunnydale."

"What's their usual procedure?"

"Ten or eleven of the Brits deploy for the night patrols, along with six of the amateurs – Osbourne, Mears, Wells and Levinson; Calendar and Giles sometimes join them, but not always. Sometimes they split into two patrols of roughly even size, sometimes they work as one big group.

"The dawn raids are usually handled by five or six of the Brits, and they nearly always either go after haemovore hideouts, so they have the advantage of sunlight during their attacks. Calendar, Giles and the Kendalls always turn up for research and training sessions."

Walsh nodded thoughtfully, still flicking through the file. "Do you know who they are? Who they're working for?"

"Yes, Director – the British Army."

Walsh looked up sharply at that. "Really?" she said, intrigued. "I knew the NID's files mentioned that the British government tried to persuade ours that magic and other supernatural nonsense existed for over two centuries or so, but there was never any mention of their military combating HSTs… What unit are they from?"

Finn looked disgusted. "Two of them are from support units, Director, but the rest are from the SAS – the Twenty-Second Special Air Service."

Walsh frowned down at the file as she flicked through it. "What can you tell me about this… 'SAS'? I know they're some sort of special forces unit, but exactly are they like? What can they do?"

Finn snorted. "The SAS, Director, are an undisciplined and unsophisticated rabble," he replied, not bothering to disguise his contempt. "They have no concept of a proper chain of command, no respect for rank, and their weapons and equipment are museum pieces."

"How do they compare to American special forces units?" Walsh asked.

"An American unit of similar size, like Delta Force or the Navy's DEVGRU, has a budget about twenty times that of the SAS, and there are major equipment level differences between the two forces, both in comms and weaponry. In technology terms, Ma'am, the SAS lag far behind our units: half their weapons and radios are antiques that date back to the Sixties or earlier. They're always understrength, too, far moreso than any American unit."

"Are they any good?"

"They're just English soldiers, Ma'am."

Walsh gave Finn a hard stare. "And what _exactly_ does that mean, Agent Finn?" she pressed. "When I ask you a question, I expect an _informative_ answer."

"Director, all English soldiers have no sense of honour, duty, or patriotism; they have no love for God or Country," Finn said disgustedly. "They fight for one thing and one thing only: _money_. They're no better than mercenaries."

"Bottom line: how much of a threat could they realistically pose to the Initiative's operations?"

"The entire SAS regiment consists of barely two hundred men. As of last week, Director, there are nearly eighty special forces operators assigned to this base – and that figure doesn't include our aircrews," Finn pointed out. "By this time next year, we'll have close on three hundred operators stationed here.

"Even if the Brits sent every single SAS soldier that they have to Sunnydale right now, my men would wipe them out," Finn continued. "Between our more advanced weaponry, training, battlespace communications, protective gear, and other equipment, combined with our aviation assets and armoured units… Well, all of those factors would make any battle between our forces a slam dunk. Besides, every one of my boys is a true proud and proven American patriot: our superior morale alone would give us an edge they could never hope to match.

"So, a team of nine or ten SAS soldiers and a couple of support staff, working with the local amateurs?" Finn shook his head again. "They're no more a threat to us than a bug splattered across a Humvee's windshield."

"I see," Walsh mused aloud. "Tell our Surveillance Section to keep an eye on that SAS unit. I must admit… I'm curious."

Finn nodded. "Yes, Director."

"Do we have any cameras in that factory?"

Finn shook his head. "No, the HSTs never seemed interested in using it as a hideout. And installing a set without tipping off the Brits will be very difficult – they've set up their own cameras along every approach, both on the surface and underground. We could do it, but I can't guarantee full operational security."

Walsh slowly nodded. "I'd prefer to retain the element of surprise," she decided. "Tell Surveillance to continue using our existing network."

"Yes, Director."

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**33 Flaherty Avenue, Sunnydale, CA**

Cheerful music issued forth from the television's speakers as the film's ending credits rolled. Sprawled comfortably on the couch facing the set, Willow and Oz were cuddled up together.

"The movie okay?" Oz quietly asked.

Willow gave him a small and shy little smile. "Nope – it was perfect," she said happily. "I really needed that."

The orange-haired werewolf kissed her forehead. "Good."

"S-so, um… h-how's things with the Scoobies?" Willow asked.

"Eh… the usual vampire problems. And an apocalypse," Oz replied, completely deadpan.

"Apocalypse?" Willow yelped. "Oh my god – what do you need me to do? Research, hacking, a-a-a spell—"

Oz shook his head. "We've caught it early – looks like it won't happen for another ten months, minimum; maybe even longer. If we act now, we can nip it in the bud this weekend. The guys and Harmony have a videoconference up at the motorcycle factory in a half hour; we want to run it past the head of the Coven and get another expert opinion on the magical factors involved."

"Uh, w-w-will you need t-to be there, too?"

"No, they can handle it without me."

"B-b-but aren't you, like, all 'Leader Guy' now?"

"Yes I am: and as Leader Guy, I've decided to delegate to the guys and Harmony while I enjoy some quality Willow time. Besides, they did most of the research."

Willow shyly smiled. "Aww, that's so sweet…" she cooed. "B-but, um, wh-what about, uh, dealing with the bad guy? O-or bad guys?"

"If they need me, they'll call me," said Oz. "But I think this is kinda going to be more H Troop's line of work than mine: a crossbow or a stake isn't going to cut it. And Giles and Miss Calendar aren't going, either: they're still recovering and… catching up."

Willow sighed, and cuddled closer to Oz. "Everything's changed so much," she said quietly. "And… and I-I don't think I can keep up with it all, y'know? Miss Calendar's alive, a-and she's come back… Kendra's dead, a-and so are Angel and Amy and Michael… A-and th-there's all these new Scoobies, a-and the only one I even know i-is Jonathan, and that's only 'cause I kinda pulled out the thumbscrews when I thought he was behind that whole thing with the swim team… A-and there's a new Slayer, and w-we've got soldiers helping us now – and Harmony's _nice!_ I mean, _Harmony!"_

Willow shook her head in incredulous stupefaction. "'Harmony Kendall' a-and 'nice' just _don't_ go together," she insisted, talking more to herself than to Oz. "Th-that's not simply _weird_, i-it's against all laws of God and man… but it's somehow happened anyway.

"And…" She paused, her voice hitching. "…X-Xander's back… only, he's not really Xander anymore… h-he's a Terminator… he's completely different…"

Oz considered this. "I didn't know him when he was human… but I think he's kinda stayed the same, just a little bit," he mused aloud.

Willow perked up a little at that. "Really? H-how?"

Oz shrugged. "He used to save one Slayer, now he saves another."

"I guess that's true…" Willow sighed. "B-but… I-I miss the old days, you know? N-n-not everything, though!" she hastened to add. "Definitely like having a boyfriend now, yes sirree bob! A-and it's really great that Miss Calendar's back, a-and that we've got all the extra help now – that's _gotta_ be of the good, right?"

"That didn't stop you hacking the Ministry of Defence's central mainframe, though," Oz pointed out, a small smile on his lips.

"Eep!" Willow blushed, in a manner that Oz privately thought looked absolutely adorable. "I said I was really, _really_ sorry about that?" she said forlornly. "I-I know it was dumb, a-and kinda rude, and unnecessarily paranoid, and-and-and… oh, god, the British government are mad at me, aren't they?" she finished glumly. "I haven't even finished high school, and I've already made a nuclear-armed country's government mad… What am I gonna do when I get to college: start World War Three?"

Oz shook his head. "Nope. They're not mad at you: your offer to help upgrade their security went down really well. And General Marsden and his grandkids really enjoyed the apology cookies you baked for him."

"Phew… that's a relief," Willow sighed. "And, hey!" she added, brightening up, "Positive feedback on my cookies: that's always good.

"But… the thing is… I miss _some_ things from the old days: I-I miss Jesse, a-and Xander's back and yet he's kind of not back 'cause he's nothing like as Xander-y as he used to be, and-and… And I really, _really_ miss Buffy," Willow finished in a very small voice.

"Me too," Oz quietly agreed.

"Really?" Willow asked. "Hmm… I didn't realise you two were so close, Mister," she said, grinning mischievously.

Oz gave a laconic shrug. "We're the same height. We bonded. It's this whole big thing between us."

Willow giggled. "Should I be jealous of you and Buffy?"

"Should _I_ be jealous of _you_ and Buffy?" Oz playfully countered.

Willow froze, eyes widening and a small smile on her lips, as her imagination helpfully supplied a number of scenarios to her conscious mind. "Uh-uh, um, er…" she stammered, blushing a little, then nervously smiled a wicked little smile: "Maybe?" she squeaked, her bold attempt to sound coy falling flat.

Oz responded by tenderly kissing her on the lips. "I can live with that," he huskily whispered.

Smiling, Willow returned the kiss.

"Warren and the guys're looking for Buffy," Oz told her as they settled down again. "They've got nothing so far, but they might get lucky one day."

"…I oughta start helping them," Willow mumbled.

"No one is going to force you to go back to the fight, Babe," Oz promised her. "You've done a lot; you need a break. Everyone's cool with that, they understand."

Willow cuddled a little closer to Oz, resting her head on his shoulder. "I know," she agreed. "But… but I think m-maybe I've had enough of a break… I-I think I'm ready, now."

Oz brushed a stray lock of her hair out of her face. "You'll still take the rest of the weekend off, though, right?" he asked.

Willow quickly nodded. "I-I could _totally_ use the rest of the weekend to recover… Of course, I'll need some help with that?" she added, looking hopeful.

Oz smiled. "I'm here for whatever you need."

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**22 Lewes Street, Sunnydale, CA**

The factory's loading dock doors slid back just wide enough to admit the old but reliable station wagon. The car smoothly pulled inside, and the doors were slid shut again. Switching off the engine, Melody began to open her door.

Geordie trotted over, clad in civilian clothes with an ops waistcoat and ballistic vest worn over his t-shirt, a LAW 80 across his back, a pistol holstered on his thigh, and a Colt Commando fitted with a grenade launcher attachment held as easily as a toy in his left hand. "Hold oop fer a second, Pet!" he called out, accompanied by a series of echoes that rang throughout the vast high-roofed building.

"Do ye mind parkin' rightt oop there—" Geordie pointed over at where two Range Rovers, a Transit van, and a couple of second-hand cars were parked off to one side in a makeshift parking area, "—where ye'll be oot the way a' the doors? We got more traffic inboond, an' we might need to crash oot in a rush; an' we cannae do that if yer motor's in the way."

Melody stared at him, a little shocked by the firepower he was carrying. "Um… oh, sure," she agreed.

"Cheers, Pet," Geordie said with a broad grin as she closed her door again. "A'right, Jon?"

"Hey, Geordie," Jonathan cheerfully replied from where he was sitting in the back seat with Harmony. Further conversation was cut off as Melody drove off, turning and parking neatly between the van and one of the Range Rovers.

"Ah, Jonathan," Hastings called out in greeting, as he descended the steps from the factory's offices. "Good to see you – and I take it these must be the Kendall ladies? So sorry it's taken this long to finally meet you both, but you know how it is, there's a million and one things to do every day in this job…"

"Uh, y-yeah – Mrs Kendall, Harmony; th-this is Captain Hastings," Jonathan introduced them, grinning nervously. "H-he's in charge of H Troop."

"_Hades_ Troop!" Badger shouted from where he was busily stripping down the engine of one of the second-hand cars, grinning good-naturedly as he looked up from his work. His pistol was holstered on his thigh, and his carbine was close to hand.

"Quite," Hastings said dryly, amused, as he shook Melody's hand. "Nice to meet you both at last. It's good to see that you're safe after your encounter the other week, Miss Kendall: Frezzons might be fragile, but they're very vicious and can do a lot of damage if they get the opportunity."

"O-oh, uh, th-thank you," Harmony stammered out, curtseying a little clumsily as she shook his hand next.

"Th-thanks for the lift, M-Mrs Kendall," Jonathan piped up. "I-I'm really sorry I lost track of the time like that…"

"Oh, it's no trouble at all, Jonathan," Melody assured him. "It's the least I could do: your tutoring sessions have already improved Harmony's pop quiz scores."

Both teenagers promptly blushed.

"Ready for the briefing?" Hastings asked.

Grateful for the distraction, Jonathan and Harmony quickly nodded.

"Who's going to be involved with this briefing?" Melody asked, openly intrigued.

"W-well, a-a lot of people," said Jonathan. "Faith, a-and the lady who leads the Coven of light magic witches in Devon, a-and the Chief of Defence Staff…"

"The Chief of…?" Melody repeated uncertainly.

Jonathan nodded. "Y-yeah: he's kinda the British version of the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs."

"Y-you guys talk to the-the boss officer guy of the whole British military?" Harmony squeaked, sounding surprised and impressed. "You never mentioned _that!"_

"Uh… this'll be our first time," Jonathan admitted. "So far we haven't talked to anyone higher up than Major Burgoyne from the Directorate of Special Forces before, a-and we only met him the one time. This'll be our first time mixing with the really big leagues…"

Hastings snorted. "Jonathan, you and your friends had a hand in preventing an apocalypse – _twice._ You were 'big league' before you'd even _heard_ of us."

As the conversation continued, Harmony interestedly looked around. She'd never visited Hades Troop's base before, and the strange sights and sounds and smells around them were oddly fascinating to her.

The concrete factory floor still bore scuff marks, holes and old oil stains from the production lines that had once been installed there, but the machinery itself had long ago been removed. Hades Troop's members had used groundsheets and camouflage netting to partition off some small sections of the huge area for a bit of privacy; these living spaces were sparsely furnished with camp beds and folding chairs.

A vehicle pool had been set up to the right of the loading bay doors, and doubled up as a very basic workshop; the opposite side was kept completely clear. _'Must be to make it easier to move cars and stuff around,'_ Harmony mused. There was easily space for twice as many vehicles as there were currently parked.

The rest of the cavernous space was divided into several more areas, each dedicated to a particular role – a field kitchen, a laundry area with half a dozen large washing machines and dryers, an armoury, a sturdy steel cage big enough to park a car inside. A set of doors were off to one side, marked **'Men'** and **'Women'**. Drying her newly-wet hair with a towel and clearly freshly-showered, Bel emerged from the latter door and headed over to her living space, clad in jeans and a t-shirt, with a pistol holstered on her thigh.

Racks of shelves were crammed full of equipment. Body armour, helmets, woodland- and desert-pattern camouflage fatigues, boots, elbow and knee pads, webbing, rappelling harnesses, climbing ropes, folding ladders, blow torches, underwater breathing apparatus, wetsuits, gas bottles, high-pressure pumps, power tools, radios, and sundry electronics devices the purposes of which Harmony could barely guess at… all of it was laid out in an example of organised chaos.

Overhead ran a series of gantry ways, which must have once afforded access to various machines on the old production line: now, they were dead ends. A flight of stairs led to several offices on a platform: once the nerve centre of the factory's production, they'd now entered service as a new kind of headquarters.

Six men and women were present: one was just about visible through the offices' windows, while the other soldiers were on the main factory floor. All either carried weapons, or at least had them within arm's reach. Geordie and Dave sat in folding chairs over by the loading bay doors: the latter carried a general-purpose machinegun, but was otherwise armed and equipped the same as Geordie.

"Warren and Andrew are getting set up in the ops room," Hastings said, leading the little party to the stairs.

Jonathan nodded as he fell into step alongside the SAS Captain and they began climbing the stairs. "Okay, cool. I, uh, I guess we'd better go join them, help out…" said Jonathan.

"Oh, god, I shoulda worn a-a suit or something…" Harmony groaned.

Jonathan glanced back over his shoulder and gave her an encouraging if nervous smile, taking in the sight of Harmony wearing a flattering green dress that went well with her blonde hair. "N-no, no, i-it's okay, you look, uh, y-you look f-fantastic," he stammered out, blushing brightly.

A small smile crept across Harmony's face. "R-really?" she asked, brightening up a little.

Jonathan quickly nodded. "Y-yeah, absolutely," he agreed, then tripped on the next step and almost went sprawling. "Whoaaaa!" Hastings' hand shot out and quickly grabbed Jonathan under the boy's right armpit, holding him upright.

"Jonathan's right: you look lovely, dear," Melody said comfortingly.

"Y-yeah, b-but d-don't I need to look – y'know – professional and all?" Harmony asked.

"We're in the middle of an active war zone on top of the Mouth of Hell, Miss Kendall – the dress code gets pretty lax under such extenuating circumstances," Hastings confidently assured her as he set Jonathan back on his feet.

Dom Tanner poked his head out of one of the offices, raised his fingers to his lips, and gave a piercing whistle, then cupped his hands around his mouth, shouting: "Scouse and the lads coming in, in ten!"

Geordie and Dave sprang to their feet, readying their weapons as some machinery nearby them rumbled into life and the loading doors slowly trundled open. A white Transit van drove through a few seconds later. The doors began sliding shut again as the van was parked out of the way in one of the empty spaces, and the two sentries relaxed while Dom ducked back into the operations room.

The doors of the van's cab and rear were flung open, and six men dressed to kill – quite literally – in Embassy Black Tie jumped down, their MP5s and shotguns slung, and respirators clipped to their webbing.

At the top of the stairs, Hastings stepped out of the way of the others and leaned on the gantry railing. "How'd it go, Scouse!" he shouted down.

"Feckin' good, Boss!" one of the newcomers shouted back, advancing on the stairs with a rolling swaggering gait enforced by his assault gear. "Three nests busted an' thirteen vamps dusted, then we slotted that feckin' Fyarl demon camped out by the nursery school."

"Nice one!"

Reaching the top of the stairs, Melody spotted Warren and Andrew through the window of one the office that served as the ops room: Jonathan was already making a bee-line for that office's door, with Harmony close behind him. Melody lingered outside on the gantry, watching as the two teenagers entered the office.

"How're you handling all this, Mrs Kendall?"

Melody looked around at Hastings. "Finding out that vampires and other monsters are real; and that superpowered teenage girls, witches, geniuses, and British commandos fight them? Pretty well, surprisingly," she said. "Those leaflets that, um… big man, says 'Why-aye' a lot?"

"That's Geordie."

"Right – the leaflets that Geordie passed along to Harmony and I last week were very helpful: I've already thrown out our 'Welcome' doormat. And it was a great relief when Bel visited to cast a permanent 'Disinvite Vampires' spell on our house."

Hastings nodded. "You're more than welcome, Mrs Kendall."

Melody turned away from the view of the bustling soldiers down below, and faced the office in which the four teenagers were scattered about, Harmony interestedly watching while the others worked at laptops and computer terminals. Hastings watched as Melody's gaze lingered on her daughter. "You're scared she'll get more involved," he quietly noted.

Melody froze for a long moment… then nodded. "I am. She's helping a lot with research sessions, a-and I always go along with her whenever I can… She seems so happy that she's able to help save lives, a-and they're all good boys… And I know it's selfish, but… I really hope Harmony won't start fighting monsters. I-I just want to keep her safe." She hung her head, sighing deeply. "I-it's selfish of me, a-and horrible, but—"

"No it isn't," Hastings cut her off. "You're her mother: it's perfectly natural for you to feel that way."

Melody looked up, saw only sincerity in his eyes. "Thank you," she said.

"Would you mind a bit of advice?"

"…Alright?" Melody agreed.

"Don't try putting your foot down and tell her she mustn't get involved. Odds are it'll just have the exact opposite effect."

Melody blinked, surprised. "I'll remember that," she agreed. "Are-are you a parent too, then?"

Hastings shook his head. "No: my experience with this sort of thing comes from having been on the _other_ end of the equation," he said, cracking a wry grin. "My parents threatened to disinherit me if I went into the Army instead of becoming a lawyer like they wanted."

"So what happened?"

"The very first thing I did after graduating from university was to enrol at Sandhurst, and upon graduating from there I was commissioned as an officer in First Battalion the Duke of Wellington's Regiment. That was six years ago, and they haven't spoken to me since."

Melody nodded. "Yeah, it sure sounds like that tactic backfired with you…" she agreed, cracking a smile.

"From what I've heard, your daughter is acutely aware of her strengths and limitations, and she doesn't overreach herself," said Hastings. "She's pretty sure she wouldn't be much help in a fight: I suspect she asked Geordie for self-defence lessons mainly to protect herself from some of the other students at her school."

Melody smiled fondly. "I remember her first lesson in the school library," she said wistfully. "I believe it went something like…" she paused, deepening her voice a little in an attempt to mimic Geordie's accent: "'Noo remember, Pet: if youse smack a human in the crotch hard enough, they'll go doon, Ah don't care what kinds of fancy super-tantric-ninja pain control shite they've learned. Slam summat in their crotch good an' hard, an' you'll be a'right'."

Hastings nodded. "Well, it's sound advice," he said. "Harmony's sticking to doing things she's confident that she _can_ do instead, like helping with research – and she does them very well, apparently."

Melody's smile widened a little. "She does," she sighed. "And… and I'm proud of her, you know? It's just… I'm also absolutely terrified."

Hastings smiled. "That's perfectly normal," he assured her.

**[—]**

"This is so amazing…" Harmony breathed as her gaze flickered from one computer monitor to another. Some displayed video feeds from hidden cameras surrounding the factory; others displayed maps of the world with various locations highlighted, or had documents and video files called up. The door banged shut as Dom bustled out, intent on some errand or other.

Andrew beamed at Harmony. "I-it's not the JLA's lunar Watchtower, but it's a start," he replied.

"Welcome to _our_ world," Warren said happily. "Does this rock, or does this rock?"

"It took over a week for Dom and us to get this place up and running," said Jonathan. "And as you can see, it was _definitely_ worth all the effort…"

"Ooh, is that the Bronze?" Harmony asked, pointing at one of the monitors.

"Yeah – you wouldn't _believe_ how many vamps lure their victims into the alley behind it," Warren agreed, as the ops room door swung open, and Melody and Hastings entered. "It's so bad back there that Faith once suggested faking a gas leak or something to get the Bronze evacuated, then burning it down to reduce the weekly death rate."

"It was eventually agreed that that might not work in the long run," Hastings spoke up. "The vampires would probably just start 'hunting' in other parts of the town; at least with the Bronze, there's a focal point to their behaviour."

"There's always Faith's other suggestion," Jonathan pointed out.

"Wh-what was that?" Melody asked, intrigued, as she sat beside her daughter.

"Get the whole _town_ evacuated, then raze it to the ground."

Harmony blinked in surprise. "W-wow… that sounds, uh, kind of… um… extreme…" She paused, mulling the idea over. "I-it kinda makes a lot of sense, though…"

Andrew nodded. "If your quarry goes to ground, leave no ground to go to," he agreed.

"Are you quoting something?" Jonathan asked.

Hastings glanced at his watch. "Two minutes to the briefing," he announced. "Are you all ready?"

The four teenagers nodded nervously.

"You'll be fine," Hastings assured them.

"Um, should I leave for this?" Melody asked.

Hastings shrugged. "If you want to," he said. "Otherwise, feel free to stick around. We trust you not to go tattling to the press," he added jokingly.

The office door swung open again to admit Bel and Scouse. "How's things?" the former asked, plonking herself down in a spare chair before a nearby computer. Still clad in his assault gear and his face covered in a fine film of sweat, Scouse leaned against the wall in a corner.

"Uh, w-we're okay, thanks, Bel," Warren replied as Dom entered.

The signaller promptly busied himself with firing up a quintet of large computer monitors: four of them were easily three feet across, while the central monitor was about twice as large. One by one the enormous monitors flickered into life, displaying static.

Dropping himself into another computer chair, Dom began typing in commands. "Oh-kay…" he announced, "…Stirling Ops… online."

The upper left-hand monitor shifted, displaying the Operations Room at Stirling Lines. Forwood was visible amid the clutter of signallers and their equipment, accompanied by Faith and Xander. The Slayer and the Terminator were clad in Embassy Black Tie; the former's face was covered in sweat, but she looked happy.

Dom nodded in satisfaction, still typing. "Duke of York's Ops… online."

The lower right-hand monitor now displayed Brigadier Page.

"Coven comms room… online."

A beautiful and regal-looking forty-something red-haired woman – Marianne Dubrow, the current leader of the Coven – appeared on the upper right-hand monitor.

"Annnd… Northwood," Dom finished.

The image of a man in a general's uniform formed on the central monitor. Although balding and in his mid-sixties, General Sir William Marsden still looked every inch a professional soldier. Despite his age, his uniform barely seemed able to contain the dynamism and vitality that he palpably radiated even over a videolink and the width of the Atlantic.

Dom turned to Hastings. "Everyone's confirmed as up," the signaller reported.

"Thanks, Dom," Hastings said quietly.

"_Captain Hastings,"_ Marsden spoke, his voice laden with decades of authority and experience, _"you have reported a potential Alpha-Plus situation."_

Hastings nodded. "Yes, sir. We have reason to believe that an Alpha-Plus event will occur approximately eleven months from now."

"_I trust you have evidence to support this claim?"_

"We do, sir. General, I'd like to present the three members of the Scooby Gang who initially detected this situation back in late May; and Miss Kendall, who's been of great assistance in their later research."

"_Ah, yes: the famous Messrs Mears, Wells and Levinson, the founders of Llewellyn Technologies,"_ Marsden said, turning to face them.

The three teenage boys stared, wide-eyed in terror and shock. "Uh… th-th-that's us, sir," Warren managed to get out, his voice rising in pitch a little.

Marsden nodded. _"Ever since one of Julian's officers, a Major…"_

"_Burgoyne, sir,"_ Page supplied helpfully.

"—_quite; he returned most impressed with your inventions, and the report he filed reflects this,"_ Marsden continued. _"Since then, I've been trying to extract some extra funding from those useless paper-pushers at Whitehall… although that's like trying to get blood out of a stone, as usual,"_ he sighed gloomily.

"_If you like, General, me an' Tee could pay some a' these guys a little visit, see if we can maybe change their minds?"_ Faith offered, grinning. _"I still ain't met someone who didn't reverse their position on somethin' real quick when I dangle 'em by their ankles off the top of a tall building…"_

Marsden snorted, a small smile creeping onto his lips. _"That's most generous of you, Slayer Faith, and I just might take you up on that,"_ he replied, a faint mischievous twinkle in his eyes, before he returned his attention to the four teenagers in H Troop's ops room. _"Now, lady and gentlemen, what have you discovered?"_

Warren gulped nervously. "W-well, back when Faith and Xander had just arrived in town, we learned th-that the Mayor – Mayor Richard Wilkins the Third – had to have, uh, some kind of knowledge of the supernatural, because Xander had overheard and recorded some radio traffic from the local police dispatch…" he began. "Anyway, Andrew wrote an essay on the Wilkins family for school last year, a-and we noticed some weird things when we looked at it.

"Namely, three men, all called 'Richard Wilkins' – apparently the town's founder, h-his son, and his grandson – had been the mayor of Sunnydale, a-and each of them was in office for exactly twenty years, followed by a twenty-year break before the next Richard Wilkins took office. Th-the current mayor, Richard Wilkins the Third, is supposed to retire next year, s-so that'll be his twenty years completed.

"We looked up some old pictures in the local newspaper archives, pictures of all three of these mayors." Pausing, Warren tapped a command on his keyboard: several monochrome photographs, clearly scanned in from newspapers, appeared on the lower left-hand monitor.

"The picture on the left is of Richard Wilkins; the middle one is his son, Richard Wilkins Junior; and the last picture is of Richard Wilkins the Third," said Warren. "These are the best-quality pictures we could find of them."

Forwood frowned. _"They look completely identical,"_ he commented.

Warren nodded, feeling a little more confident. "Th-that's what we first noticed too, Colonel," he agreed. "S-so, um, we ran these pictures through some facial recognition software that MI-6 gave us a copy of, and _this_ happened…"

Warren tapped a command into his keyboard, and wireframes of red lines flashed up on the monitor, bracketing and connecting key locations – such as eyes, cheekbones, noses and lips, to name but a few – of the faces of the three Mayors Richard Wilkins. A second later a black bar flashed up, displaying in blood-red script the message **'MATCH CONFIRMED: ERROR MARGIN 0.00%'**.

"Um, w-we came up with a whole bunch of theories to try and explain how this c-could happen," Jonathan stammered. "The four that seemed the most likely w-were either some kind of magical cloning was involved; maybe several people were using the same face for a disguise f-for some reason; or-or maybe that they were triplets a-and two of them travelled through time; _or_ that they were the same guy a-and he's found a way to not only extend his lifespan, b-but also keep himself from physically ageing."

"We also ran the pictures through FEP – that's a piece of software MI-6 gave us, a-and they got it from the FBI, the Facial Extrapolation Program," Warren added. "It lets you alter pictures to see what someone would look like older or younger; it helps to identify kidnap victims years after they disappear, or crooks who you've only got an old out-of-date picture of. Now, we kinda stood the idea on its head: we ran each of the pictures through the FEP, and asked the program to estimate Wilkins' age. Every time, it said the same thing: fifty to fifty-five years old."

"W-we ran a bunch more pictures of the Mayors Wilkins through the FEP, from different points in their political careers – when they'd just started their first terms in office, when they were near the end of their careers, in the middle… uh, you get the general idea," said Jonathan. "Anyway, they – or-or rather, _he_ – stayed looking the exact same age the whole time."

Warren nodded. "That got us wondering about what kind of magic Wilkins coulda used to do that, s-so we asked Captain Reckliss if he coulda used light – or at least neutral – magic."

"Neutral magic isn't powerful enough to do anything remotely like what Wilkins has accomplished," Bel spoke up. "As for light magic… it could be done, but you'd have to stay on top of a light magic hotspot to keep your spells supercharged enough to continue working: they'd collapse if you left the hotspot. The Slayer line is the only example of light magic achieving anything remotely like the effects that Wilkins has wrought upon himself without the beneficiaries being tied to a single location."

"_Dame Marianne? Does this match with your experiences?"_ Marsden politely asked.

"_It does, General,"_ Dubrow agreed. _"And you couldn't use a fraction of that sort of light magical power on top of even an extinct Hellmouth, let alone an active one like Sunnydale's. No: for Wilkins to preserve his physical health and prolong his lifespan to this extent on top of the Sunnydale Hellmouth, he would have to use dark magic, and his spells would tie him to that particular Hellmouth. If he were to leave its sphere of influence, the spells would fail, he would revert to his true age in a matter of minutes, and that would almost certainly kill him."_

"_So we have a dark mage building a town smack dab on top of an active Hellmouth, and then running it for fifty-nine out of the ninety-nine years it's existed, while performing a Highlander routine the whole time,"_ Page summed up.

"_Sounds mighty damn suspect t' me,"_ Faith growled. _"An' I ain't 'zactly over-fond of the guy fer sending his pet Keystone Kops after me."_

"Th-that leads us to our next problem," said Warren. "Sunnydale's sewer network, a-and maintenance tunnels for stuff like underground electricity cables, water pipes, things like that – they're all situated in a way that makes them, like, super-useful t-to vampires and bad-guy demons."

"The thing is, Wilkins signed off on all of the plans f-for that infrastructure," Jonathan said. "A-and I really do mean _all_ of it; h-he even drew up some of those architectural blueprints himself."

"It's a trap," Andrew put in, his eyes wide and trembling nervously, but ploughing on nonetheless: "Sunnydale – th-the whole town… it's all one giant trap."

"_For whom, exactly?"_ Forwood asked.

Andrew gulped. "Us – humans," he said simply.

The videoconference attendees all stared at him in rapt attention.

"Sunnydale's g-got everything," Andrew quavered. "Uh, l-like, it's got its own airport – only a national one, but it's still a really big deal? A-and it's got a really big college, UCS, wh-where nearly ninety-five percent of the students come from outside Sunnydale, and the railroad station's a-a lot bigger than those of other Californian towns a similar size to ours – Wilkins helped set all of those up.

"Th-then there's the zoo, a-and all the parks which are laid out, like, kind of suspiciously well-suited f-for vampires to take people by surprise and attack them? A-and a lot of shortcuts happen to run past or through cemeteries, or-or other good, um, ambush sites… They all appeal to people looking to move here or-or take a vacation here or study here, a-and they all help contribute t-to the vampires' body count… and Wilkins is linked to _all_ of them.

"A-and then there's our high school: Wilkins personally chose the site for it, he drew up the plans for it – the whole thing was his brainchild. According to the cornerstone, construction work began in 1948, a-and the first thing they built was the school library… which is located right on top of the exact _centre_ of the Sunnydale Hellmouth."

Unnoticed by anyone else, Harmony huddled close to her mother; Melody instinctively wrapped an arm around her daughter's quivering shoulders and hugged her close. Harmony rested her head on Melody's shoulder, even as Melody began to soothingly stroke her hair, the elder Kendall trying to impart a sense of comfort that she didn't truthfully feel herself.

"That's not all," Warren said sombrely. "L-last night…" He broke off, struggling to find the necessary words. "The Hellmouth grew last night: a-at, um, midnight," he finally said.

"_How the blazes is that even possible?"_ Marsden asked, clearly fighting to control his shock and anger.

"_A sufficiently powerful mage skilled in the use of dark magic could accomplish such an act if they had access to the right rituals… and the necessary blood sacrifices,"_ said Dubrow, looking distinctly uncomfortable at the last part.

"_Julian, you know a lot more about this stuff than I do: what's your opinion?"_

Page nodded. _"I'm no mage myself, sir, but it sounds plausible enough to me."_

Marsden let out a heavy sigh. **"Christ,**_ I miss the old days, when all I had to worry about was the bloody Ivans invading West Germany…"_ he irritably muttered under his breath, although his microphone picked up the comment nonetheless.

Warren politely cleared his throat. "Um, er… w-we all felt it – A-Andrew, a-and Jonathan, and Captain Reckliss, and me… we felt the Hellmouth grow," he said.

"_How bad were your symptoms?"_ Dubrow asked.

Bel grimaced at the memories. "Migraines, nausea, extreme disorientation, vomiting, nosebleeds, temporarily overwhelming feelings of mortal terror and dread… about what you'd expect from an event on a Hellmouth this big, really," she replied. "Ms Calendar and Doctor Giles later informed us that they experienced similar symptoms during that timeframe."

"_And your recovery times?"_

"All about an hour or so, on average."

Marsden frowned. _"I'm sorry, but I don't quite follow…?"_

"_Anyone with any kind of magical sensitivity – be they human mages, Slayers, or certain species of demon – would have noticed and reacted to a magical event of such magnitude,"_ Dubrow explained. _"They would react differently depending on what kind of magic they're used to using: dark mages would experience pleasurable sensations, while light magic users would react… rather more negatively, as Captain Reckliss and Messrs Mears, Wells and Levinson did._

"_Even someone who isn't a particularly powerful mage would still suffer if the only spells he'd ever cast had all used light magic for power. Mr Mears is a good example of this: having been a magical practitioner for only a few months, he's still very much a novice, even moreso than Messrs Wells and Levinson; but he's only ever used light magic, and he's sensible enough to take every precaution that he possibly can to protect himself against being corrupted by the Hellmouth's elevated levels of background dark magic."_

Warren did a quick double-take, and then his lips slowly formed a wide and slightly dopey smile.

Glancing at Warren, Bel permitted herself a small smile of her own before turning back to the monitors. "After we'd recovered, I cast a scrying spell," she began. "The Hellmouth has expanded horizontally to roughly ten miles beyond Sunnydale's borders, and vertically by a depth of close on half a mile. The levels of background dark magic have risen by ten percent, too.

"My Lady, Slayer Faith, sirs – as of last night, the Sunnydale Hellmouth is fully twice as unstable and powerful as the Belizean Hellmouth. This Hellmouth is now the single greatest and most imminent threat to this planet's continued existence, and the survival of its inhabitants.

"But that's not the worst of it."

"_And what _**is**_ the worst of it, Captain?"_ Marsden asked, plainly dreading the answer.

"The amount of power and skill that a mage would require to expand the Sunnydale Hellmouth by this magnitude is easily several times over the power and skill needed to instead open the Hellmouth and initiate an apocalypse," Bel said bluntly. "So whatever that mage's ultimate goal may be, it requires a very powerful, very large and highly unstable Hellmouth… and any spell that might take advantage of such a Hellmouth would – probably just as a side effect – tear it wide open."

Silence promptly fell as the full and horrifying significance of Bel's words sank in. Warren's smile disappeared. Harmony tried to stifle a sob of fear, and Melody leaned down to kiss the crown of her head.

"_Lemme guess: you guys got somethin' t' suggest Wilkins is behind this, right?"_ Faith finally broke the silence, grim-faced.

Hastings nodded. "When Mr Levinson approached H Troop on his friends' behalf, we planted a few cameras to monitor various locations we knew Wilkins frequented," he said. "We've also planted a few more overlooking the worst hotspots of vampiric and demonic activity, in the hopes of accelerating our response times and saving lives: we can't afford all that many, though, so the network's a long way from complete.

"Long story made short, we found that the cameras had recorded the following events last night, at about the same time that our mages felt the Hellmouth expand. This took place in Fairview Cemetery, fairly close to the school: unfortunately, we were all over in Restfield on the opposite side of town almost fifteen miles away at the time, battling a mixed gang of vampires and Channath demons that were out hunting for Slayer Faith. Dom, would you mind?"

"On it, Boss," Dom said, already tapping a command into his keyboard.

The photographs of Wilkins through the ages vanished from the lower left-hand monitor, and were replaced with a piece of video footage, a night-time scene of a graveyard. A man in a robe and a hooded cowl stood before a stone altar; a vampire in a suit stood respectfully behind him and to his left, a wailing baby in his arms. A digital clock discretely ticked away in the bottom right corner of the footage.

Curiosity roused by the infant's cries, Harmony stared at the screen, her eyes glittering with unshed tears. She took in the scene, and felt a sick stab of dread deep in her belly, an unswerving instinctive certainty that something truly dreadful was going to happen. She wanted to look away but couldn't bring herself to do so, hoping against hope that if she just kept watching then she would prove her instincts wrong.

The robed man chanted an incantation at a slow and steady speed, foul syllables no normal human throat could ever utter spilling freely past his lips as he lit candles and sticks of incense, and set fire to a bloated lump of organic tissue that looked somehow familiar. Wracking her memory, Harmony's eyes widened and her gorge rose as she reconciled the lump of meat with her memories of a diagram of the human heart that she'd once seen in her Biology class.

The baby's cries grew louder and more intense as the man threw back the cowl of his robe to reveal his face. Wilkins drew a slim-bladed dagger from his robe's recesses, then raised it high above his head and brought it down to skewer the burning heart. The heart erupted in glittering green flames; runes flashed into existence along the dagger's blade, bathed in coruscating magical energies, as Wilkins withdrew the weapon from the blaze. Still Wilkins chanted the incantation, gaining speed all the while…

And then Wilkins turned to the vampire at his side, who obligingly lay the squalling infant in his big and strong-looking empty hand. Still chanting, Wilkins turned back to face the altar.

Harmony buried her face in her mother's shoulder. She heard the baby's screams abruptly rise in pitch, and then end altogether just as suddenly. She silently sobbed into her mother's blouse, and distantly felt a few salty tears spattering onto her hair as Melody hugged her close.

Forcing herself to look away from the footage, Melody studied the reactions of those around her.

Faith's reaction was one of unashamed naked horror and overwhelming fury: her entire body was visibly quivering with the intensity of the emotions coursing through her. Had Wilkins been in the Ops Room at Stirling Lines with her just then, the Slayer would likely have torn him apart on the spot with her bare hands, and proceeded to reduce him to a pile of little bloodied chunks of meat no bigger than her thumb.

The three military officers on the monitors were hiding their reactions a little better than Faith was, but all were clearly sickened and enraged. Shaken to their cores though they visibly were, they nonetheless still looked grimly and angrily determined to continue to do their duty and exact bloody vengeance if given the opportunity.

Dame Marianne Dubrow of the Coven had solemnly bowed her head. Her eyes were closed, a few tears slowly and silently streaming down her cheeks.

Literally unemotional killing machine that he was, Xander was perfectly stone-faced.

Melody looked away from the monitors, turning her gaze instead to the comms office's other occupants. Hastings, Bel, Scouse and Dom looked a little shaken, but not as badly as their superior officers, and just as resolved to exact bloody vengeance against Wilkins. _'I guess they've already seen this…'_ Melody silently mused.

Of the three boys, Andrew was the most disturbed, his head bowed and his face unhealthily pale as he trembled in his seat. Though plainly sickened themselves, Warren and Jonathan had wrapped their arms around the younger boy to try and comfort him, and looked a little relieved that they could distract themselves.

A bright flash of light illuminated the video feed, and Dom hit a button to pause the footage.

"As you can see from the footage, _that_ occurred at precisely zero hundred hours, local time," Hastings said, indicating the flash.

"_What exactly was that light?"_ Marsden asked.

"The conclusion of Wilkins' spell to expand the Hellmouth, sir," said Bel.

"If you'll just bear with us, sir?" Hastings asked politely. At Marsden's nod, he turned to Dom. "Alright, Dom: bring up the footage of us."

Dom nodded, and began tapping new commands.

"Now, this is the tail end of our battle in Restfield," Hastings said as the new footage began rolling. "Particularly noteworthy is that all four of our mages are visible, as you can see on the left-hand side of the screen.

"At twenty-three fifty-nine hours, Nick slots the last Channath demon… we secure the area and start policing the demons' bodies… our mages start scrying for any nearby vampires and demons… and then _this_ happens."

As Melody watched, the three boys and Bel on the screen simultaneously collapsed, clutching at their heads, mouths open wide in silent screams of agony and terror. Dom quickly paused the footage there.

"The microphone fitted to that particular camera packed up last Sunday, but that doesn't matter. The point is – wind it back a bit, would you, Dom? Thanks – you can see from this footage that our mages collapsed at the exact same instant that Wilkins concluded his… ritual," Hastings continued, grimacing at the last word. "I'm told there's absolutely no possible way that could be a coincidence. Miss Calendar and Doctor Giles called in last night to report similar experiences at the same time."

"_Dame Marianne?"_ Marsden asked.

"_Captains Hastings and Reckliss are correct,"_ Dubrow said, having regained most – although not quite all – of her earlier calm composure. _"Any spellcraft involving a… a sacrifice like that, on top of an active Hellmouth… it would certainly induce the reactions Captain Reckliss described earlier; and unless another spell of similar magnitude and power were cast at the exact same time, then I'd say that it must surely be responsible for the Hellmouth's growth."_

"Finally, it seems that Wilkins has performed this sort of spell before," said Bel.

"_How'ja find that out, Bel?"_ Faith asked.

"The scrying spell revealed certain… markers… indicating where the Hellmouth's old boundaries used to be," Bel explained. "The simplest comparison I can think of is the rings of a tree stump, showing you how old the tree was before it fell down… The point is, the Hellmouth has grown five times before last night, and always at identical intervals."

"W-we did some research into that," Warren spoke up. "Um, w-we theorised that maybe Wilkins might have used the twenty-year gap thing f-for more than just his terms in and out of public office… Anyway, we found these articles in the archives o-of 'The Sunnydale Gazette'." He tapped his keyboard, and the frozen video footage was replaced by four newspaper articles.

"Each of these articles is about a baby going missing from a local hospital," Warren said solemnly. "The articles are from 1917, 1937, 1957, and 1977. In each case, th-the babies were taken from their hospitals on the night of the Twenty-Eighth of June… none of them were ever found. W-we think something like th-this might've happened in 1897, too – it would complete the pattern – b-but the Gazette only published its first issue in November 1898."

"That would fit, alright," Bel agreed.

"_What on earth could Wilkins possibly want such a powerful Hellmouth _**for?"** Forwood wanted to know.

"_I don't know, Colonel, but I don't think we want to find out firsthand,"_ Dubrow dryly replied.

"_Yeah, that'd probably be real unhealthy t' try,"_ Faith agreed. _"Does it really matter what he's up to?"_

"_Not one little bit,"_ Marsden said firmly.

"_Wilkins must be terminated immediately,"_ Xander said in a flat tone of voice that brooked no argument. _"He poses too great a threat to human life on this planet to be permitted to live."_

"_A-fuckin'-men to that,"_ Faith growled.

"_I quite agree,"_ said Page. _"General, with your permission…?"_

"_By all means, Brigadier,"_ Marsden growled.

Page turned to face the occupants of the ops room. _"Captain Hastings: as of this moment, Red Card rules of engagement are in full effect. H Troop's top priority now is to kill Wilkins and scotch whatever plans he's got in the works. Is that understood?"_

Hastings gave a curt nod. "Yes, sir."

"_Slayer Faith? Do you have any objection to this course of action?"_ Marsden asked.

"_That bastard's had this comin' a _**real**_ long time,"_ Faith growled. _"He needs planting six feet unnerground, STAT."_

"_Very well. Mr Mears, you seem to be acting as the spokesman for the Scooby Gang,"_ Marsden said matter-of-factly. _"Do you or any members of your group have any objection to this course of action?"_

Warren exchanged glances with Jonathan and Andrew, then looked over his shoulder at Melody and Harmony, before turning back to the monitors. "None, General," he said quietly.

"_Remmy, do ya need me an' Tee back in the 'Dale t' whack this guy?"_ Faith asked.

"We know Wilkins plays golf every Sunday morning, Boss," Scouse spoke up. "We put in a sniper; they cun pick 'im off from a safe distance. Nice and simple; he shouldn't even know our bod's there 'til 'e's already dead."

Hastings glanced over at him. "You volunteering to try it, then?"

Scouse shrugged. "I s'pose I feckin' am, Boss, seein' 'ow I just suggested it."

Bel nodded. "That could work," she agreed. "Wilkins' main defensive strategy seems to have involved drawing as little outside attention to himself as possible, so odds are he won't be shielded against such an attack."

"_I concur,"_ said Dubrow. _"Most mages would consider an attack using such a 'mundane' weapon to be highly unlikely, so they wouldn't waste time and effort shielding themselves against it."_

"In that case, Faith, much though I appreciate your offer, I'm going to have to turn you down," said Hastings. "Looks like we should be able to deal with him without interrupting your training."

"_Okay, that's cool with me,"_ Faith agreed.

"_In that case, Captain, we'll leave your troop to carry out the operation,"_ said Marsden.

Hastings nodded. "Yes, sir. H Troop, out."

With that, Dom hit a key, and the monitors went blank.

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Sunday 29th June 1997**

**Grounds of Sunnydale Golf Course, Sunnydale, CA**

The image of Richard Wilkins' smiling face and tartan golfing cap filled the lens of the telescopic sight.

Wilkins took a firm grip on his club and looked down at where his ball was sitting on its tee.

Looking exactly like just another random piece of foliage in his ghillie suit and blanket, hidden up among the trees that surrounded the golf course, Scouse was lying on his belly behind an L96 sniper rifle, its stock pulled in tight to his shoulder. His left eye was closed; his right was open, relaxed, staring through the rifle's scope.

Wilkins looked over to the ninth hole, then back at his ball again.

"Sierra One: I have a clear shot on Whiskey One," Scouse whispered into his throat mic.

Wilkins smoothly drew back his club.

Scouse's earpiece crackled: _"Sierra One, Hades One Zero Alpha: have that,"_ Hastings replied. _"You are clear for shot."_

Wilkins whipped his club down and forward: the ball went flying up into the air—

"Sierra One, got that," Scouse confirmed.

The ball landed a few inches away from its target, then gently rolled straight into the hole—

Scouse brought his breathing under perfect control with practiced ease.

Wilkins adjusted his tartan golfing cap, a cheerful smile on his face. His lips moved as he said something to himself—

Scouse's finger tightened on the trigger, squeezed it smoothly as he breathed out—

The bullet's propellant ignited: the little lead slug at the end of cartridge exploded forth from the rifle's barrel; a deafening _crack!_ rang out across the golf course as it broke the sound barrier in a glory of velocity—

A fraction of a second later, the slug tore into Wilkins' left eye, on through his eye socket, his brain, the back of his skull—

A spray of green gore gushed from the back of Wilkins' head and his ruined eye socket—

"Ah, _shite,"_ Scouse cursed under his breath, and screwed his eye shut tight as glittering emerald green fire exploded from the entry and exit wounds in Wilkins' head.

A split-second later, Scouse saw a bright actinic flash of light through his eyelids, right before Wilkins' corpse exploded. The ground shuddered beneath him, and what felt like a miniature earthquake rattled him to his core.

At last, Scouse forced his eyes open again. Shaking his head, he peered through his rifle's scope.

All he could see was a crater of bare bubbling molten earth that had been scorched black.

Scouse keyed his comms, his hand trembling like a leaf. He cleared his throat, forcing himself to calm down, and slowed the trembling. "Sierra One… x-ray down," he reported. "Repeat, Whiskey One is _down."_

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Initiative Base of Operations Echo Four, Sunnydale, CA**

Finn blinked in surprise, staring at the control room monitors. "Oh-kaaaay…" he said slowly.

"Sunnydale's freakin' _mayor_ is an HST?" Gates said, his tone disbelieving.

"_Was_ an HST," Miller corrected him.

Finn shook his head. "This town just gets weirder every day…"

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**


	17. Chapter 17

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**No Fate: The Collected Data Files**

**Chapter Seventeen – Always a Little Further Part Five**

**Monday 30th June 1997**

**Stirling Lines, Hereford, England**

**22nd Special Air Service Regimental Headquarters**

The sun was just clearing the top of the wooden plinth upon which a four-sided clock was set. Around the plinth's base, gleaming in the blood-red dawn sunshine, were three large bronze panels, each inscribed with several dozen names.

Faith caught a glimpse of the words **'barr'd with snow'** and **'that glimmering sea'** on one of the plaques as she and Xander headed past the clock on their way from their room to the cookhouse. In obedience to an unconscious habit she'd first formed two weeks before, the Slayer favoured the clock with a solemn and respectful nod as they passed by. A lump formed in her throat as she did so, then slowly dissipated as she left the memorial behind.

**[—]**

As the Slayer and the Terminator pushed through the cookhouse's grey swinging doors, they were hit by a now-familiar and comforting barrage of noise: crashing plates, hissing steam, clinking mugs, metal chair-legs rattling as they were scraped across the dull-red tiled floor, the steady roar of over a hundred voices in animated conversation. The large L-shaped room was filled with the warm, appetising aroma of freshly-cooked food.

Roughly half of the cookhouse's customers were trainees on Selection, by now halfway through the spring-to-autumn course; the others had the air of confidence and deliberate step that Faith had come to associate with the Regiment's 'badged' personnel. These latter were mostly familiar faces from D Squadron, plus a few others the Slayer vaguely recognised as members of the Training Wing, some of whom gave the two newcomers welcoming nods or smiles in passing… and, yes, there was Newton at a table in the far corner as usual, already starting his own breakfast and giving the leather-clad Slayer and her Terminator companion a wave of friendly invitation. Faith grinned back and flashed him a thumbs-up in acceptance of his offer.

Two shining aluminium-and-glass serveries ran the length of each leg of the room. Behind them, men and women decked out in regulation kitchen whites swiftly glided backwards and forwards among the steaming vats and clanking ovens, going about their business in apparent chaos but no doubt following some well-rehearsed routine.

Faith got to the head of the queue and started to move along by the hotplate, which as ever looked like a tribal feast day in the jungle. On display there was food, mountains of food, all of it incredibly appetising. Beside a tureen of steaming hot soup, a large wicker basket overflowed with big blocky chunks of freshly-baked bread. A mound of rich yellow butter, which looked as if it had been tipped straight out of the farmyard urn, had several knives carelessly protruding from it. In the middle section there was a choice: a help-yourself tray full of lamb chops, swimming in savoury juices, and a mammoth joint of beef impaled on a spiked turntable.

A large cook was poised over the beef with a gleaming carving knife and a long two-pronged fork; he looked as if he would have been equally at ease wielding a machete in the jungle. His craggy ruddy-red face lit up in delight upon seeing Faith and Xander, and he beamed at them. "The usual, Slayer?" he asked loudly, raising his voice to battle against the background hubbub.

"Yes please, Tim," Faith happily replied.

The brawny cook stabbed the fork into the joint and deftly swung it around on the turntable to get the right angle for carving. The meat compressed as the gleaming knife bit into it, and rich juices oozed from the pink centre. "Crackling?" he offered, depositing the first thick slices of meat on one of the plates upon Faith's first tray before starting to carve the next slice from the joint.

Faith nodded eagerly. "I'd love some."

No sooner were the words out of her mouth than a huge chunk of crackling was deposited over the first two thick slices of meat.

**[—]**

Faith balanced a tray in each hand as she made her way through the tables. The trays bore six plates of food between them, liberally heaped with thick slices of beef and crackling, rashers of crispy bacon, fried eggs with bulging golden yolks, juicy lamb chops, big slabs of thick hot buttered toast, and generous portions of fat golden salted and vinegar-soaked chips. Xander followed her, carrying a third tray full of glasses of ice-cold fizzing and sugar-laden lemonade, and an enormous two-litre mug that was full nearly to the brim with red hot steaming tea.

Reaching their usual table, the Slayer and the Terminator sat down opposite Newton.

The SAS corporal shook his head and grinned as he watched Faith tuck into her breakfast with unfettered gusto. "Fucking hoofing," he sighed happily.

"Mnuht?" Faith mumbled indistinctly around a mouthful of chops.

"It's not often I get to see someone enjoy their nosh as much as you do," Newton explained. "That, and most girls your age are completely mental about dieting and watching their figures and shit."

"That'sh th' good ol' Shlayer metabolishum for ya," Faith told him with a contented smirk, still happily munching away. "I _shtill_ ain't gained an ounche even though I been eatin' like thish ever shinche I got here, an' I managed ta pack a fair bit away even before that. I keep eatin' 'ike ish, an' I coul' maybe go fer months at a time without eatin' if I ever hadda."

"Handy stuff," Newton observed.

"Damn right – _EEERRRPP!"_ the Slayer paused to let fly a long and loud belch, then looked a little embarrassed. "'Scuse me…"

Newton dismissively shook his head. "No drama," he assured her.

"Damn, that was loud even fer th' new an' improved Slayer-ised me…" Faith admitted.

Newton grinned. "I've heard louder."

"From _what_, 'xactly?" Faith asked as she set aside her first empty plate and started on her second one.

"Three hill giants, two Fyarl demons, a succubus high priestess, and this really _biiiig_ bloke we had with us on exchange from the Aussies last year," Newton automatically listed off, not pausing once during his recitation.

Faith looked thoughtful, wracking her memory as she popped a forkful of steak into her mouth. "Ain't succubuses those sex demon chicks?"

"Yep," Newton nodded. "They're a bit like regular buses: you spend ages waiting for one, only for three of 'em to come all at once."

Faith took a second to mentally re-run what she'd just heard, then grinned dirtily and let out a cackle of appreciative laughter. "Good one, man."

Newton looked exaggeratedly smug, hamming it up. "I thought so."

"So, what's new?"

"Well, the Colonel had a word with me last night, after we'd knocked off for the day," said Newton. "So far as the bureaucrats at the MoD are concerned, your suits of Embassy Black Tie – and all the gear and weapons to go with them – and your Lannie are only on loan to you two. However, anyone who actually _matters_ thinks that that's a load of old bollocks, so you don't need to worry about returning any kit; it's yours now, and that's the end of it. Call them souvenirs or really late birthday prezzies or something if you like. They'll get shipped out to the 'Dale at the end of the week."

Faith's eyes widened in surprise and she stopped chewing, then swallowed. "A-are you guys sure?"

Newton chuckled. "Oh, yeah. Figured you'd get more use out of those than a snow globe."

"Awesome!"

"That assessment is correct," Xander intoned.

"Glad you think so," said Newton.

"A snow globe is of significantly inferior tactical utility," continued the Terminator. "It possesses a great many shortcomings as an offensive weapon, making for an inefficient blunt instrument and a non-aerodynamic projectile."

Newton slowly nodded. "Gotta admit, I'd never thought of it quite like that before…"

Faith grinned. "Can't argue with any a' that, though."

"True," Newton agreed. "So, how'd your meeting about the 'Dale and Wilkins go last night, with the Director's headshed?"

"Yeah, it went real well, thanks," Faith said, nodding and looking contemplative. "We talked over a whole buncha options for other units an' vehicles could be deployed in th' 'Dale; we gotta couple promising long-term possibilities."

"We getting any extra kit in the near-future?"

"Buncha M202s, extra LAW 80s, 'nother jimpy…" Faith listed off. "Plus three gunned-up Lannies; we can't take 'em in the graveyards or unnerground, but they won't need loads a' support staff t' run an' we can use 'em damn near everywhere else in town – maybe even drive 'em inside the mall in a pinch."

"Sounds like a good Friday night out," Newton chuckled.

Faith grinned at that. "Yeah, sure does… top a' that, we'll get a couple more signallers, maybe a couple REME fitters t' help keep the vehicles running, plus 'nough badged bods t' make up four fire teams minimum, maybe five if Alan c'n swing it…"

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

"Morning, Roddy," Forwood called out as he entered the bustling Ops Room.

"Ah, good morning, sir," Griffiths replied. "We weren't expecting you until—"

"I know," Forwood cut him off. "Anything happening?"

Consulting his clipboard, Griffiths shook his head. "Nothing urgent, no, sir."

Forwood nodded. "Good, good…"

"Odd report from H Troop came in during the night, though. It isn't time-sensitive, just… strange."

Forwood looked intrigued. "Oh?"

"Sixty-seven people, most of them city officials, died in Sunnydale yesterday morning – local time, that is," Griffiths amended. "Local press is saying that they were cases of spontaneous human combustion; they all went up simultaneously."

Forwood raised a sceptical eyebrow. "And what are Hades Troop and the Scooby Gang saying?"

Griffiths gave a wry smile. "Well, the boys from Llewellyn Technologies managed to… ahem… _access_ the security systems of various public buildings, and found that several of the deaths were caught on CCTV. It wasn't combustion; they all exploded. Sergeant Kirklee took a look at the feed, and he's positive that it's identical to what he saw happen to Wilkins when _he_ blew up, just on a smaller and less destructive scale. According to the time stamps on the footage, they all died at the _exact_ same time as Wilkins did."

"Hm," Forwood grunted noncommittally. "Certainly sounds like they had some sort of magical connection to him."

"Captain Reckliss is pretty certain of that, too, sir."

"How has Sunnydale's human community reacted?"

"They haven't," said Griffiths. "It's not even front-page news: the 'Sunnydale Press' has got it on Page Nine and 'Sunnydale Today' has it on Page Seventeen. Radio Sunnydale briefly mentioned it as their final bulletin ten seconds before they started the weather forecast. Instead, they're all leading with a story about the completion of a new wing for the town's mental institute."

Forwood shook his head in disbelief. "I assume that that's the 'Sunnydale Syndrome' the Scoobies warned us about at work?"

"Yes, sir."

"Alright… What about the supernatural community?"

"Looks like they know the real story, sir, or at least part of it. Captain Hastings says it seems to be early days, but they're pretty shocked for now. Last night's patrol was pretty quiet as most vampires and demons seemed to be either staying in or were out at various bars gossiping about Wilkins' death. They seem to believe Slayer Faith is responsible, in large part because she established a reputation very early on for using firearms. H Troop and the Scoobies only bagged nine vampires and a pair of Fyarl demons between them during the patrol itself."

"Not bad going," Forwood said approvingly. "Out of curiosity, who _exactly_ dropped dead yesterday?"

Griffiths consulted his clipboard again. "Um… Both judges, the district attorney, a dozen lawyers – that's every single lawyer that worked in the town," Griffiths added. "Then there's the Board of Directors of the local hospital, the school board, several senior faculty members and lecturers at the university, the commander of the local National Guard armoury, the chief of the town's police force and his deputy… and all seventeen traffic wardens went up as well. That seems to be about it."

"Only on a Hellmouth…" Forwood groaned.

"The good news is that at least it helps to cover Wilkins' death," Griffiths pointed out. "So far as the average Sunnydaler is concerned, he was merely yet another case of SHC."

"Yes, I suppose that _does_ make life easier for us…" Forwood conceded.

"Oh, and Slayer Faith received a letter from Director Travers late last night," Griffiths added.

Forwood gave a grunt of disdain. "What did he want?"

"A meeting at the Council's headquarters," said Griffiths. "Apparently, he wants it low-profile; only one field Watcher knows about it."

"What time?"

"Late this morning, sir; Corporal Cohen will be taking her down the town to get a set of, ah, _enhanced_ tattoos first."

"From Ms. Bramley?"

"Yes, sir."

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**The Pentagon, Arlington, Virginia**

The office was dim and dark, lit only by a lamp atop the desk.

The room's sole occupant was a tall man wearing a US Army day uniform, his jacket off. He sat in the shadows, leaning back in his reclining office chair and staring deep in thought at a map affixed to the wall. A cigar was clenched between his teeth, smoke curling lazily from the end, which glowed a bright cherry-red in the night's darkness. Light barely brushed the three stars that adorned each of his shirt's epaulettes, leaving the silver metal rank insignia twinkling in response to the slow and steady motions of his breathing.

A clock on the desk indicated that it was just past five o'clock in the morning; next to the clock was a brass nameplate that read **'Lt. Gen. J. Burrell'**.

The office's intercom buzzed. _"Sir, Colonel Whitton is here."_

The cigar-smoking officer slowly nodded, then hit a button on his desk, never taking his eyes from the map. "Send him in," Burrell ordered.

The door swung open a second later. Whitton marched in, backlit by the light from the corridor outside until the door was closed behind him.

"Tom," Burrell offered by way of greeting. "What do you have for me?"

"Our Directorate people just reported in concerning the manhunt: still no sightings of Summers," said Whitton. "So far as Director Pryde's concerned, Hostile 2 has fallen completely off the grid."

The cigar glowed brighter in response to a deep drag upon it. "She'll turn up back on it again… and when she does, so will we. Give her enough time, and she'll make a mistake."

"Do you have any orders, sir?" Whitton asked.

"Yes…" Burrell sat forward in his seat and turned to face Whitton – at least, Whitton assumed he was, as the glowing end of the cigar was now pointing directly at him, "…I want you to start making preparations. When the time comes, I don't want to have to wait around. Get the usual wish-list… actionable intel, a team, equipment, weapons, aircraft, C3I support element: full package. And you make _damned_ sure that Kinsey and his pets don't get wind of it; they get the slightest sniff of what we're gonna do, they'll shut us straight down."

"Yes, sir," Whitton obediently replied. "Um… sir?"

"You have a question?"

"Yes, sir."

"Ask it. Consider that an order if it makes you more comfortable."

"Well, sir… how can you be so sure? The Summers manhunt is the NID's jurisdiction – I just don't see how that'll change any time soon."

Burrell gave a soft chuckle. "Walsh is the key," he replied. "She's got _plenty_ of rope to hang herself with, now. It's only a matter of time before she screws up enough for the President to decide to return the Initiative to _our_ control, where it belongs. When that happens, I want to hit the ground running and take Summers down straight outta the gate. We'll do it fast, we'll do it tight, we'll do it right.

"We _will_ retake the Initiative, Colonel. It's only a matter of time."

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**Initiative Base of Operations Echo Four, Sunnydale, CA**

Walsh entered Room 259 to find Angleman already there, intently studying a computer monitor. "What do you think, Jack?" she asked.

Angleman jumped. "Oh, Director – I-I didn't hear you come in," he stammered as he looked up at her; reaching for a file, he held it out to her. "Er, well… so far, the most promising candidates are Finn, Gates, Mariotte, Vornholt, DeBrandt, Passarella, and Ruditis; if we're going to advance anyone to the Phase Four enhancement any time soon, then they're our best options right now."

Walsh accepted the file, flipped it open and began examining the printouts within. "EKGs show a good sinus rhythm…" she mused aloud, "electrolytes and metabolic panels are within normal limits, chest x-rays are clear, prostate screens are fine… no evidence of ischemic changes for any of them…" She looked up from the file. "Good work."

"I'll make the necessary preparations then, Director?" Angleman offered.

"Drop Finn and Gates from the list, but begin the procedure for the others," Walsh ordered.

"May I ask why not those two?"

"Due to their rank and combat experience, replacing Finn and Gates at any point in the next year would decrease our strike teams' combat efficiency to an unacceptable degree," said Walsh. "The others are sufficiently low-ranking and have no field experience, so they're far more expendable. If they fail to survive, we have reserves that we can call upon."

"Should we maybe delay the Phase Four enhancement, Director, until we can run some more tests and simulations?" Angleman suggested.

"Absolutely not," Walsh insisted. "We need to get results and _continue_ getting them."

"Director… with all due respect, I'm not really sure we should be advancing Project 259 at this speed," Angleman said quietly. "We originally scheduled our test subjects for the Phase One bio-tech force enhancement process to receive the treatment over twenty-four to thirty months before even we even _thought_ about commencing the Phase Two enhancement; and after that, another eighteen months at the bare minimum before we initiated Phase Three, with a similar interval between Three and Four. All test subjects should only be at Phase One right now."

"And that makes good scientific sense, Jack; but this is no longer a purely scientific matter," Walsh replied. "If we're to keep General Burrell from taking direct control of the Initiative program, then we _need_ these results."

"We've already had one fatality from the Phase One enhancement, three from Phase Two, and five from Phase Three," protested Angleman. "Surely, putting more of the test subjects in body bags because we rushed the BFE Mark Two program will only end up reflecting badly on us?"

"If we can prove that the program can produce useful results, then the powers-that-be in Washington won't care if we have to kill a hundred soldiers in order to successfully enhance one," Walsh said dismissively. "Seventy-seven men have survived Phases One through Three; and Agent Romero survived Phase Two enhancement and was a very promising subject until his accident in Springton.

"Project 259 is far more useful than the DEWS carbines, and has killed less than half as many personnel; these are _easily_ acceptable losses," Walsh continued. "Out of all the projects that the Initiative program has running right now, 259 promises to be the most versatile of all. If only one man out of this first batch of test subjects survives the Phase Four enhancement, then that will be a successful result."

"But what about the side effects on their mental state?" Angleman persisted. "Colonel Matthewman and his people are doing a good job of finding troops who possess a suitable degree of patriotic loyalty and socio-political ideologies that are compatible with this project's requirements: but Phase One drove them all pretty crazy, while Phases Two and Three have taken them from patriotism to borderline _fanaticism_."

Walsh shrugged. "What's your point?"

"Director, you know that I'm all in favour of making this project work, but the control chips aren't anywhere _near_ ready for implantation yet – how will we keep the Phase Four subjects in line if their mental states deteriorate even further?" Angleman asked. "In such an eventuality, they could do one _hell_ of a lot of damage to this program, both physically and politically… I don't know about you, but I'm not ready to die or start job-hunting any time soon, especially not with so much of my CV redacted."

Walsh smiled. "The control chips may not be ready, but the last resort chips _are,"_ she pointed out. "If we _do_ have problems with insubordination among the Phase Four subjects, then we pull the plug on them outright."

"Without the scheduled observation periods between enhancement procedures, we will have absolutely no idea what the long-term effects on their physical and mental health could be," said Angleman. _"None._ We could well end up losing all of the test subjects and have to start over."

Walsh gave an indifferent shrug. "There are always casualties in war," she said simply. "The long-term cost is irrelevant: in the _short_-term, we need every possible advantage with which to combat the menaces of the HSTs, the Goa'uld, and those… big-game hunters that General Phillips keeps chasing. If we fail to acquire such assets, then this country won't _have_ a 'long-term' with which to concern itself.

"Besides, we know that the Nazis and Soviets ran bio-tech force enhancement programs, some of which were very successful," she mused aloud, deep in thought. "Who's to say that, for example, North Korea or Qumar aren't working on similar programs of their own right now?"

"True enough," Angleman conceded.

"And that's not our only concern; ever since the Soviet Union collapsed, a lot of their military hardware has wound up on the international black market, including some of their more… _exotic_ material. If the Bahji or any other terrorist group ever buy copies of their technical data and enhance some of their own people, then who knows what kind of damage they could do if we lack those same capabilities?" Walsh shook her head decisively. "No: we need this capability, Jack, and we need it right now."

"You're sure about this, Director?" Angleman asked.

"I am," Walsh said confidently.

Angleman slowly nodded. "I'll start prepping the first group of test subjects for Phase Four enhancement, then."

**[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]**

**The Council of Watchers' Headquarters, London**

"Thank you for meeting with me at such short notice," Travers greeted Faith and Xander as they entered the room.

The leather-clad Slayer shrugged. "I was kinna curious what alla th' cloak-an'-dagger stuff was in aid of," Faith admitted, looking around the basement-level room that Robson had discretely led them to. "Figured this was th' fastest way t' find out."

Travers nodded, then glanced at Robson. "Thank you, Doctor; you can go," Travers said politely but firmly.

"Sir," Robson acknowledged, then turned and left.

Faith raised an eyebrow, openly intrigued. "So, when d' we get answers?" she asked.

"Right now," Travers told her. "The matter I wished to discuss with you concerns… well, it concerns the nature of Slayers."

Faith quirked a small grin. "I'm listening."

"A Slayer's body is a miracle—"

Faith's grin widened. "Thanks fer noticing," she cut in.

Travers shook his head, looking faintly amused. "That isn't what I was referring to," he said, turning sombre. "Slayers' bodies are improved in a great many ways. If they were suffering from medical conditions such as cancers, tumours, or infections before they were Called, then those conditions are completely eliminated when they become Slayers – eliminated so completely that it's as if they'd never existed at all."

Faith looked intrigued. _"Huh_… Never knew that before…"

"Slayers can completely recover from injuries that would instantly kill a human being," Travers continued. "They can endure all manner of hardships and remain able to fight when anyone else would be hard-pressed simply to stay alive. And, provided they eat a suitably large diet and survive long enough… they cease to physically age."

"How's anyone know that? I thought Slayers didn't last long?" Faith asked.

"Most don't," Travers agreed. "But there have been patches of history when things were relatively quiet among the world's supernatural communities, which enabled a handful of Slayers to live rather longer lives than their sisters. Make no mistake, those women were still good Slayers in their own right and that is part of why they lived for so long; but it did help that they had fewer enemies to fight."

Faith nodded. "So, how far did they get?"

"Slayer Hilde was in her late thirties when she fell in battle with the Sisterhood of Jhe, during the 1380s if memory serves," Travers told her. "According to her Watcher's diaries, she still appeared to be a girl of no more than sixteen or seventeen summers, and had stopped visibly growing older at around that age."

Faith let out a low whistle. "Pretty impressive."

"Indeed," Travers agreed. "When one considers that people physically age slower today than they did in that era – due to access to clean water supplies, better diet, improved standards of hygiene and so on – and that the average human lifespan was shorter back then, then by today's standards she would likely have appeared to be somewhere in her early to mid-twenties.

"As you can imagine, a lot of people would give a great deal to duplicate even a fraction of this power," the Watcher continued. "Even worse, there are a great many rituals involving dark magic that can be greatly enhanced… _if_ the mortal remains of a champion of the light can be corrupted and used as components for the spell in question."

Faith grimaced. "Gross."

"Quite," Travers said wryly. "So a lot of dark mages the world over would dearly love to get their hands on the body of a Slayer… or a live one."

Faith nodded. "Well, that's all real interestin' an' kinna disturbing… but somehow, I'm guessin' ya didn't ask me t' come here just fer a lecture."

"Indeed not, Slayer Faith," said Travers. "I need you to see something, and I have a request; one that I would rather certain factions among the Council didn't know about."

Faith shrugged. "Can't guarantee I'll say 'yes'."

"I'm… quietly confident that you will," Travers replied, then gestured toward the door. "If you'll follow me?"

"Lead on, MacDuff," Faith quipped, eliciting another almost-smile from the Watcher.

**[—]**

"So, how come you guys got such a rabbit warren down here?" Faith asked, as Travers led the Slayer and the Terminator down yet another winding subterranean corridor. "Seems like ya got more building unnerground than ya do up top."

"That's because we do. Have you ever heard of Krannag demons?" Travers replied.

Faith shook her head. "Naw, they don't ring no bells."

"I'm not surprised; they mostly live deep underground and keep to themselves, don't make much trouble," said Travers. "They tend to ignore humans, and the rest of the surface world to boot, so it's rare for Slayers to ever cross paths with them. While not great warriors, they are unsurpassed when it comes to working with stone, and building subterranean habitats. Back in 1401, Slayer Margrethe saved a Krannag tribe from a band of vampires. The tribe – the Milwanawhe – vowed to repay their debt to the Slayer line with their service. They ask for nothing in return for their labours."

"By buildin' unnerground extensions fer th' Council's headquarters?" Faith asked.

"Oh, the Milwanawhe do a _lot_ more than that," Travers told her, glancing back over his shoulder at her. _"This_ is what they do for Slayers."

An arched doorway led off into a corridor, and Travers led the way down it. Faith and Xander followed him into the gloom. Globes emitting a magical light were spaced far apart, hovering in the air above their heads, and many had failed over the centuries.

The tunnel curved downwards, describing a tight spiral that corkscrewed down into the earth. Sculptures so old that the details had been ground away by time lined the walls, now rendered mystifying and bizarre in appearance. Faith and Xander's booted footsteps echoed against the smooth stone floor.

The air got warmer. Faith had lost count of how many floors they'd descended by now; a glance at her watch told her that they'd been walking for nearly an hour, although it hadn't felt like they'd spent that long.

Some way down, the tunnel opened up into a huge underground chamber. It was so wide that the far wall was like a horizon, the roof like a sky of stone. Large, elaborate structures filled the chamber like the buildings of a wealthy, sombre city of marble and granite. Runes and elegant traceries carved into the walls and roof glittered and sparked with magic, too elaborate and too extensive for Faith to fully take in the designs. More magical light globes, too many to count, were scattered far and wide through the air.

"Welcome, Slayer Faith," said Travers, his voice low in the silence, "to the City of the Slayers; the final resting place and sanctuary for the sisters of the Slayer Line."

Faith slowly let out a deep and shaky breath. "Now _there's_ a sight an' no mistake…" she whispered, as she felt the silent necropolis strike her with awe and wonder. An overwhelming sensation of peace and welcome stole over her, and she found she couldn't help but relax completely.

Travers walked out beneath the stone sky, down a broad avenue tiled with gleaming granite. Tombs rose on either side, many several storeys high, each different. Carved reliefs of battles adorned some; others bore monumental carved runes and symbols and icons. Faith saw a painted mural, the colours faded, of a girl – no, a Slayer, she realised – in archaic plate armour with a greatsword bigger than she was in her gauntleted hands, battling a tremendous horde of pestilent tentacled demons. Another tomb, more recently built, was topped by a massive marble Supermarine Spitfire, poised as if to ascend at any moment carrying the soul of the Slayer buried beneath it into the heavens high above.

Travers turned a corner and Faith saw, at the end of the avenue, a building shaped like an amphitheatre. Arches in the circular walls looked inwards onto an area where hundreds of stone figures sat silently watching the statues in the centre.

Travers led the Slayer and the Terminator past the amphitheatre. It was huge, the size of one of the grand gladiatorial areas of Ancient Rome. The watching figures were hooded and cowled, and wore the symbols and flags of various countries and civilisations, some of which had not existed in centuries or longer.

In the centre of the amphitheatre stood the statues of four Slayers; each twelve feet tall, the statues faced outwards, their backs to one another with their heads held high and proud, stakes and scabbarded swords on their belts, clad in leather boots, breeches and hooded jerkins. Their hands were raised high above their heads; together, the four of them supported a gigantic granite globe upon which were carved the outlines of the continents of the Earth.

The symbolism was as powerful as it was bluntly obvious: every man, woman and child on the planet – whether they knew it or not – owed an impossible debt to the Slayers.

Travers carried on down the steep steps past the amphitheatre, into the shadow of an obsidian tomb. Words were inscribed into the glossy black stone – names of demons and vampires slain, of cults and groups whose plots had been vanquished, the honours bestowed upon the dead Slayer by various parties.

Above the tomb was a statue, easily fifteen feet high, carved in the image of the Slayer to whom that tomb belonged. She was proud, noble, regal in appearance, possessing a visible aura that it seemed all Slayers shared after they were Called: of poise and grace, of beauty and powerful lethality.

Faith felt her blood run cold in recognition and awe.

"…Kendra…" she managed to whisper out around the lump forming in her throat, the corners of her eyes prickling as a small smile formed upon her lips.

Travers passed his hand over a rune upon the sarcophagus, whispering an incantation. Slowly, with a deep grinding noise from within, the obsidian lid slid open. The stone around the sarcophagus rose up to form marble steps leading up, and as the steps formed Travers walked up them to stand over the head end of the sarcophagus, where he beckoned to Faith and Xander.

Slowly, leadenly, Faith climbed the steps. Reaching a level where she could see into the open sarcophagus, she looked down inside…

Faith's jaw dropped agape in shock; a moment later, she recovered herself, raising her head and glaring furiously at Travers.

"Where th' hell _is_ she?!" the Slayer all but roared as she pointed at the interior of the empty sarcophagus, her finger trembling with rage. _"Where's Kendra!"_

"We don't know," Travers replied, suddenly sounding very weary.

Faith narrowed her eyes. "You need t' explain that," she bit out. _"Right_ now!"

"Shortly after the Acathla incident, a Hunter Force team was sent to Sunnydale," Travers began. "They learned that Slayer Kendra's body had been taken to the local morgue. When they made inquiries there, they were informed that someone claiming to be her cousin had already collected it."

"Any chance it was her real cousin?" Faith asked, visibly calming down.

Travers shook his head. "None. Slayer Kendra's family were wiped out when she was only a few weeks old; she had no living relatives." He thought for a moment, then added "Or undead ones, for that matter – we checked."

Faith slowly nodded. "An' 'cause me an' Tee 're gonna be based outta th' 'Dale fer th' foreseeable future, ya want us t' try an' find her?"

"That is my request, yes," Travers agreed. "The least that Slayer Kendra deserves, the least she is owed, is a peaceful final rest… and, for obvious reasons, I cannot rely on the Council's forces. In these times, I'm even reluctant to entrust such a mission to Doctor Giles; while I do not hold his views against him…" He shook his head. "…It's too much of a risk. The team that was sent to Sunnydale is more loyal to Caulderhale's hardliners than the Council's mission, which is why they made no further search for Slayer Kendra's body; I dare not risk sending a Watcher or a team that may turn out to be of a similar bent. Will you… will you make the attempt, Slayer Faith?"

Faith nodded again. "I'm in," she vowed, then turned to Xander. "Tee, this's a Slayer thing… ya don't gotta help if ya don't wanna…?"

"My primary objective is to protect you," the Terminator replied flatly. "I will assist you."

Faith turned back to Travers. "We'll find her," vowed the Slayer. "She's my big sis, or th' closest I got, at least. It's _her_ power I inherited, it's _her_ legacy that I got t' live up to. An' I _owe_ her. We'll find her… an' bring her home t' rest."

Travers nodded, slumping a little in relief. "Thank you," he said quietly.

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**A/N:** Here we are at last! I'm really sorry about the delay; real life has been VERY chaotic over the past year, what with family emergencies, rush jobs at work, and all manner of other problems.

As if that lot weren't enough, I was injured in a rather serious industrial accident during the summer: I was very lucky to 'only' end up hospitalised instead of dead on a mortuary slab. I'd like to extend a great many thanks to Cloverfield, Marcus S. Lazarus and Sealurk for helping me through that particular rough patch of my life; you lot truly are the champions. ;)

Furthermore, Marcus S. Lazarus deserves additional thanks for his beta-reading and keeping me from making any catastrophic blunders in the 'No Fate' series. :)

Many thanks to everyone on TtH and FFN who's reviewed: I treasure each and every one of them. Please keep them coming…

I'll be back,

El ;)


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